na 


THE  SWALLOW 


THE   SWALLOW 

A  NOVEL  BASED  UPON  THE 
ACTUAL  EXPERIENCES  OF  ONE 
OF  THE  SURVIVORS  OF  THE 
FAMOUS  LAFAYETTE  ESCADRILLE 

BY 

RUTH    DUNBAR 


BONI     AND     LIVERIGHT 

NEWYORK  1919 


Copyright,  1919, 

BY  BONI  &  LlVKRIGHT,  INC, 


Firrt  printing,  April,  1919' 
Second  printing,  May,  1919 


Printed  in  the  U.S.A. 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

"THE  BRAVEST  SOLDIER  i  HAVE  EVER  KNOWN" 


2135357   ' 


THE  SWALLOW 


THE  SWALLOW 


CHAPTER  I 

MY  mother's  father  was  a  captain  in  the 
Civil  War.  Had  my  mother  been  a  man 
she,  too,  would  have  been  a  captain — perhaps  in 
a  less  bloody  business.  As  one  of  that  gentler, 
fiercer  sex,  however,  she  was  the  wife  of  a  clergy- 
man in  a  Texas  town.  But  her  soul  came  march- 
ing on.  Her  overcoming  spirit — that  was  my  in- 
heritance. 

That  her  spirit  in  me  should  seek  satisfaction 
thousands  of  yards  above  the  German  trenches 
was  an  accident  of  time  and  invention.  The 
Great  War  and  the  airplane  only  gave  it  direc- 
tion. The  spirit  was  always  there. 

My  one  boyish  ambition  was  to  fight.  My  one 
boyish  regret  was  that  I  never  could  see  General 
Grant.  And  when  airplanes  came  into  use,  all 
my  desire  crystallised  into  the  one  desire  to  fly. 
As  this  presented  difficulties  to  a  small  boy  in  a 


2  THE  SWALLOW 

town  where  flying  machines  had  never  been  seen, 
I  had  to  content  my  martial  impulse  by  attend- 
ing a  military  school  at  home.  While  I  was  wait- 
ing to  become  old  enough  to  enter  West  Point 
my  father  died.  So  I  had  to  withdraw  my  ap- 
plication and  think  of  some  way  to  help  my 
mother.  It  was  due  to  her  foresight  that  my  de- 
cision fell  where  it  did. 

"Hard  times  will  affect  the  sale  of  breastpins 
but  not  of  beans,"  she  said.  "Think  of  some- 
thing people  can't  do  without." 

"Bread,"  I  suggested. 

"Then  start  a  bakery,"  she  said. 

So  I  went  up  to  the  fort  where  I  had  always 
gone  to  dance  with  the  officers'  daughters  and 
had  the  baker  teach  me  to  make  bread.  During 
the  last  few  summers  I  had  clerked,  driven  de- 
livery cars  and  learned  various  lower  ropes  of 
commerce.  As  a  result  I  could  now  handle  the 
business  end  of  my  own  venture  while  my  mother 
planned  the  policy. 

"You  may  as  well  point  your  nose  at  money," 
was  another  of  her  theories.  "It  costs  less  to  sell 
ten  loaves  at  ten  cents  apiece  than  twenty  loaves 
at  five  cents  apiece." 

With  this  advantage  in  view  we  made  fash- 
ionable bread.  We  even  made  bread  fashionable. 


THE  SWALLOW  3 

We  sold  every  loaf  for  ten  cents  straight  and 
sold  it  sealed  in  the  first  waxed  paper  wrappers 
that  had  ever  come  into  El  Paso.  We  kept  the 
bakery  white  as  a  lily.  We  had  started  to  supply 
only  a  limited  demand.  But  as"  our  custom  grew 
and  our  machinery  kept  pace  with  it  we  startled 
our  public  with  noodle-soup  and  pot-pies  and 
other  dishes  through  which  my  mother  had  a  en- 
joyed local  fame.  And  every  Saturday  evening 
at  six  we  sold  pans  of  her  hot,  golden-brown  bis- 
cuits that  became  a  sacred  institution  in  the  homes 
of  El  Paso.  Soon  I  had  to  add  my  younger 
brother  arid  my  cousin  to  the  staff.  We  were  mak- 
ing a  good  living  for  the  four  of  us  and  turning 
every  surplus  cent  back  into  the  business. 

Then  something  happened  in  Europe.  A  gal- 
lant rabbit  stood  between  the  hole  where  its  babies 
trembled,  and  a  band  of  coyotes.  France  and 
England  placed  themselves  beside  the  rabbit.  I 
waited  for  America  to  go  in  with  France  and 
England.  America  did  not  do  it.  But  I  for  one 
could  not  go  on  selling  ten-cent  loaves  in  waxed 
paper.  It  was  my  chance,  the  chance  of  every 
young  man  in  America,  to  adventure  generously. 

That  was  August,  August  of  1914.  By  Christ- 
mas I  was  still  scheming  how  to  get  to  France. 
For  as  I  did  not  want  to  take  money  from  the 


4  THE  SWALLOW 

business,  I  should  have  to  work  my  passage.  It 
was  Lee  Malone  who  solved  the  problem. 

My  friendship  for  Lee  was  founded  on  one 
plank:  we  were  after  the  same  girl.  Lee  had  read 
an  advertisement  in  a  New  Orleans  paper  calling 
for  men  to  work  their  passage  across  the  sea. 

"So  if  we  can  get  work,"  said  he,  coming  up 
to  the  bakery  to  show  me  the  paper,  "I'll  go  with 
you." 

I  wrung  his  hand  joyfully.  To  have  compan- 
ionship would  double  the  fun.  Besides — this 
was  an  afterthought — I  should  be  glad  to  have 
him  away  from  El  Paso. 

I  wrote  at  once  to  the  New  Orleans  man,  whom 
I  shall  call  Marks.  Marks  replied  that  as  ships 
were  going  out  every  few  days  he  could  use  us 
any  time.  So  it  was  settled  that  we  were  to 
leave  on  New  Year's  night.  After  a  last  evening 
with  mother  I  was  to  pick  Lee  up  at  Jasmine 
Gray's. 

My  mother  had  never  tried  to  keep  me.  "If 
I  were  a  young  man  I'd  go,  too,"  she  said  with 
that  rare  heroism  that  can  face  hardship  for  loved 
ones.  Her  courage  only  made  the  parting  more 
bitter.  And  when  I  put  my  arms  about  her  for  a 
last  kiss,  it  was  I,  not  she,  who  could  not  keep 
back  the  tears. 


THE  SWALLOW  5 

"God  bless  you,  wherever  you  go,"  she  said, 
pulling  my  head  to  her  shoulder  with  a  quick 
pressure  before  she  unclasped  my  arms  to  let  me 

go. 

I  wiped  my  eyes  and,  trying  to  whistle  the 
lump  out  of  my  throat,  bounded  up  the  steps  of 
the  Gray's  old  Moorish  home. 

Pausing  before  the  bell  I  took  off  my  hat  and 
passed  a  hand  over  my  hair  which,  always  pulling 
against  the  wind  with  the  ruffled  determination 
of  a  hungry  carrion,  had  earned  me  the  title  of 
Buzzard.  This,  added  to  the  fact  that  my  short- 
sighted parents,  though  bearing  the  name  of 
Byrd,  had  not  scrupled  to  christen  me  Richard, 
produced  the  tragedy  of  my  childhood.  It  was 
bad  enough  not  to  have  been  called  General 
Grant;  but  the  Dicky-bird  was  not  to  be  borne. 
In  my  extreme  youth,  between  the  ages  of  four 
and  eight,  I  could  employ  the  same  method  on 
both  sexes  for  the  protection  of  my  honour.  In 
later  years  public  sentiment  forced  me  to  cease 
battering  the  noses  of  little  girls.  But  through 
the  blood  of  my  own  kind  I  wiped  out  my  dis- 
grace. I  did  not  object  to  the  Buzzard  that  re- 
placed the  Dicky-bird.  Though  an  offensive  ob- 
ject to  some,  the  Buzzard  was  to  me  an  acceptable 
namesake. 


6  THE  SWALLOW 

"Aw,  just  one!" 

It  was  Lee's  cajoling  voice.  Beyond  the  foun- 
tain in  the  moonlit  court  which  led  to  Jasmine's 
house,  I  could  dimly  see  a  white  figure.  Turning 
my  head  away  sharply,  I  gave  a  smart  ring  at  the 
doorbell.  But  I  could  not  resist  listening  for  her 
answer.  My  heart  pounded  disconcertingly.  I 
had  never  dared  so  far. 

Through  the  door  that  opened  to  my  ring 
gushed  a  jet  of  light  and  laughter.  While  I  an- 
swered greetings  my  eyes  ran  over  the  crowd  that 
had  come  to  the  Gray's  home  to  tell  us  good-bye. 
Yes,  there  they  were  at  the  back  of  the  room  .  .  . 
Lee  and  Jasmine.  They  had  come  in  the  portico 

entrance.  As  her  eyes  met  mine  I  wondered 

how  had  she  answered  Lee? 

"Right  oh,  every  time,"  yelled  Toby  Christian 
jolting  me  out  of  a  troubled  trance.  "You're 
stuck!" 

"Stuck?"  I  repeated  stupidly. 

"We're  guessing  everybody  that  rings  the  bell," 
explained  Betty  Frost,  wheeling  about  me  as  if 
she  were  a  young  gull  and  I  a  particularly  choice 
crust  thrown  on  the  water.  "Step — ring — that's 
a  girl.  Step — stop — ring — that's  a  boy.  Boys  have 
to  take  time  to  comb  their  tresses,  you  know.  And 
every  one  we  guess  right  has  to  do  a  stunt." 


THE  SWALLOW  7 

"Step — full  stop — that's  the  Buzzard.  It  takes 
him  longer  than  any  one  else  to  dress  his  feathers," 
Tony  elaborated.  "Come  through  with  a  stunt, 
my  boy." 

"Haven't  much  time  for  stunting." 

I  looked  from  the  clock  to  Jasmine.  Lee  was 
on  her  heels.  Through  some  unwritten  code  of 
my  own  I  had  expected  him  to  give  me  the  last 
few  minutes  of  a  whole  evening  with  her.  But 
Lee  had  an  air  of  settled  proprietorship.  I  cher- 
ished the  suspicion  of  her  secret  preference  for  me, 
however — doubtless  Lee  entertained  a  similar  one 
— and  I  meant  to  reap  its  benefits.  What  man  has 
done  man  can  do.  I  had  as  much  nerve  as  Lee. 

In  the  meantime  the  crowd  was  howling. 

"Train  or  no  train,  you  have  to  do  your  bit," 
announced  Betty,  once  more  putting  on  the  gull 
and  bread  attraction. 

"All  right,"  said  I,  thinking  fast.  "Two  fel- 
lows sit  down  here  in  the  middle  of  the  room — 
Toby,  you'll  do — and  Lee — that's  the  dope — and 
we  blindfold  you.  Then  you  wait  till  we  get 
the  show  ready  and  you  have  to  guess  from  the 
speeches  what  we're  staging." 

"What's  the  name  of  this  stunt1?"  asked  Lee 
uneasily  from  behind  his  bandage. 

"It's    called— Blind    Man's    Movies,"    I    an- 


8  THE  SWALLOW 

swered.     "Come  on,  the  rest  of  you — hurry  up." 

"The  stunt  is,"  I  whispered  outside,  "to  see 
how  long  those  two  goats  will  sit  there." 

I  caught  Jasmine  by  the  hand  and  leaving  the 
rest  in  suppressed  laughter  at  sight  of  the  solemn, 
trustful  figures,  I  ran  with  her  out  into  a  corner 
of  the  court  screened  off  by  magnolias. 

"We  sure  gave  them  the  merry  ha-ha,"  I 
chuckled. 

She  laughed,  little  rustles  of  leafy  laughter.  In 
the  wavy  moonlight  I  could  just  see  her  with  the 
bloom  on  her  skin,  the  round,  soft  firmness  of  a 
peach.  Her  eyes,  too,  held  the  tropical  warmth 
of  the  ripening  sun  on  an  orchard  and  her  hair 
was  full  of  fruity  tints.  Even  her  hands  were 
frail  and  twining  like  the  young  shoots  on  a  tree. 
As  I  looked  down  at  her  I  grew  suddenly  afraid. 

"Well,  goodbye,  Jack,"  I  said  in  a  rigid  voice. 

"Good-bye,  Dick,"  she  answered. 

Was  this  all?  My  heart  beat  quickly.  No,  I 
could  never  do  it  ...  I  would  wait  till  I  came 
back  .  .  .  But  that  was  a  long  time  ...  I 
must  do  it  now.  I  couldn't  .  .  .  Then  unexpect- 
edly a  magnolia  dipping  in  the  breeze  shuttered 
her  face  from  the  moonlight.  In  that  kind  dark- 
ness I  groped  for  her  soft  lips  with  my  own,  groped 
and  found  them. 


THE  SWALLOW  9 

She  was  mine!  The  earth  was  mine!  I  was 
sure  now  what  her  answer  had  been  to  Lee.  Poor 
old  Lee!  My  heart  sang  in  triumph  at  her  first 
kiss. 

"When  I  come  back,"  I  whispered  uncertainly. 

"Why  do  you  go'?"  she  asked  slowly. 

"Oh,  I  have  to  go!" 

"But  what  do  you  have  to  go  for?" 

I  looked  down  at  her  helplessly.  She  was  a 
girl.  She  would  never  understand. 

"Why,  to  see  life — and  get  a  pop  at  the  Ger- 
mans— and  not  be  a  quitter." 

And  that  in  chronological  order  was  my  creed. 
I  did  not  know  then  how  the  values  would  shift. 

She  laughed  softly,  those  little  rustles  of  laugh- 
ter. 

"But  when  I  come  back "  I  could  not  seem 

to  finish. 

She  looked  up  at  me  in  silence.  Again  I  sought 
and  found  assurance  on  her  lips. 

Somewhere  a  clock  stroked  the  midnight  air 
with  a  touch  of  silver. 

"I'll  have  to  go  now,"  I  said  and  stood  still. 
"But  I'll  write.  And  you  write,  won't  you*?" 

She  promised. 

"I  must  go  now,"  I  repeated  and  still  stood, 


10  THE  SWALLOW 

unable  to  leave  her.  At  last  I  gave  myself  a  jerk. 
With  a  last  long  kiss,  I  turned  away. 

"Say!"  I  shouted  on  the  steps  to  the  scattered 
couples.  "We're  not  going  to  have  time  for  that 
show,  after  all.  Toddle  along,  Lee,  and  get  your 
suitcase.  Meet  you  at  the  station.  No  time  to 
lose.  Good-bye,  everybody,  good-bye — good- 
bye!" 

There  was  a  rush  to  the  courtyard,  a  flutter  of 
handkerchiefs,  there  were  cries  of  farewell.  With 
his  bandage  shoved  back  on  his  head,  Lee  shot  a 
glance  from  me  to  Jasmine.  I  waved  my  hat 
and  turned  down  the  street. 

In  a  moment  I  heard  Lee's  step  behind  me.  I 
looked  around.  His  serious  face  was  flushed 
but  he  showed  no  sign  of  resentment.  As  he 
swung  along  beside  me  with  the  grace  of  a  per- 
fect animal  I  thought  him  unusually  handsome. 
This  added  to  my  sense  of  triumph. 

"Leave  your  bag  at  the  station?"  I  asked  me- 
chanically. I  was  back  under  the  magnolias. 

"Just  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you  'bout  soon 
as  I  got  my  breath,"  he  answered,  speaking  very 
fast.  "Kid,  I've  been  thinking  it  over  and  I  be- 
lieve we're  fools  to  go  to  Orleans  without  any 
jack  or  any  sure  job.  I  believe  we'd  better  stick 


THE  SWALLOW  11 

around  till  we  find  out  if  there's  a  real  thing 
waiting  for  us  down  there." 

"After  we've  told  every  one  good-bye*?"  I 
gasped.  "Sneak  back  now  like  licked  curs'? 
Not  on  your  life.  Come  on,  old  man,  be  a  sport." 

"Well,"  said  Lee  resolutely,  "I've  decided  to 
wait  till  I  have  something  to  go  on.  But  I  tell 
you  what.  If  you  find  there's  jobs  for  both  of 
us  in  New  Orleans,  wire  me  and  I'll  join  you." 

We  were  at  the  depot  now.  I  stopped  full 
under  the  light  and  looked  at  him,  at  the  loose 
ends  of  his  red  mouth,  at  the  hot  dark  eyes  that 
always  met  mine  with  too  steady  a  frankness. 

"If  you're  yellow  enough  to  back  down  now," 
I  said,  "you'll  never  hear  from  me  again." 

"Well,  I  can't  see  it  your  way,"  he  answered 
stubbornly.  "But  good  luck  anyhow,  old  scout.'* 

We  shook  hands  and  without  waiting  for  me  to 
jump  on  the  train  that  had  panted  into  the  sta- 
tion, he  left. 

From  the  back  platform  I  looked  my  last  at 
home — the  old  Spanish  town  in  the  desert  sleep- 
ing through  the  balmy  winter  night.  After  my 
hour  of  heady  satisfaction  came  a  moment  of  dis- 
may. I  was  a  little  upset  by  Lee's  shabbiness,  a 
little  hungry  for  another  moonlit  moment  under 
the  magnolias,  a  little  desolated  at  thought  of 


12  THE  SWALLOW 

my  mother  listening  in  the  quiet  house  to  the 
roar  of  the  train  taking  me  away. 

Scant  time  I  had,  however,  for  these  emotions. 
I  had  expressed  my  bag  straight  through  to  New 
Orleans  and  bought  my  ticket  only  to  the  next 
station  a  few  miles  off.  For  with  a  fortune  of 
just  ten  dollars  I  should  have  to  steal  the  rest 
of  the  ride.  So  I  hid  in  the  blind  till  the  train 
reached  Houston.  There  I  bought  another  ticket 
to  the  next  station  where  I  fell  in  with  hobos  who 
taught  me  to  ride  the  rods. 

At  every  stop  we  took  on  men  who,  like  us, 
were  beating  their  way  East.  They  were  the  car- 
rion of  the  labouring  world.  They  were  the  men 
who  picked  up  the  refuse  of  industry,  gathering 
canteloupes  in  Arizona,  reaching  Nebraska  just 
in  time  to  harvest  grain,  going  on  to  Oregon  in  the 
autumn  for  the  logging  work.  Now  they  were 
drifting  down  to  New  Orleans  for  the  banana 
season. 

I  have  wallowed  in  mud  with  human  swine.  I 
have  tended  cattle  better  kept  than  we  who 
tended  them.  But  I  have  never  seen  anything 
to  compare  with  the  filth  of  Marks'  Yard  in  New 
Orleans. 

Marks  was  contracting  men  to  take  over  mules 
for  the  British  Government.  Bums  all  over  the 


THE  SWALLOW  13 

country  had  read  the  advertisement  that  attracted 
Lee.  As  a  consequence  there  were  hundreds  of 
us  waiting  for  the  promised  jobs.  Every  man 
that  arrived  was  told  that  he  would  get  work  on 
the  next  ship;  pay  was  to  be  fifty  dollars  and  a 
return  trip  if  he  wanted  it. 

While  we  waited  assignment  we  lived  in  the 
Yard.  Here  Marks  provided  service  in  the  form 
of  a  huge  kettle,  an  open  fire  and  tin  dippers. 
Board  consisted  of  a  soup-bone  flung  each  morn- 
ing into  the  kettle.  If  we  wanted  to  elaborate 
this  stock,  that  was  our  own  affair.  As  we  in- 
variably did,  we  detailed  certain  men  every  day 
to  get  ingredients  for  the  Mulligan.  Some  pulled 
carrots  from  vegetable  carts,  some  stole  rice  from 
the  rice  mills.  With  a  deference  for  nuances  I, 
who  had  beaten  my  way  by  train,  refused  to  steal 
food.  I  was  therefore  detailed  to  beg  bread  from 
a  bakery.  This  duty  I  performed  with  more  in- 
dustry because  of  a  pretty  Creole  who  tended 
counter  and  gave  me  all  the  stale  loaves  I  could 
carry  away. 

Once  a  week  the  men  emptied  out  the  soup- 
bone,  stripped,  put  their  shirts  in  the  kettle  and 
had  their  boiling-up.  After  serving  as  tub  the 
versatile  kettle  was  once  more  united  with  its 
soup-bone.  Fresh  from  my  mother's  ordered 


14  THE  SWALLOW 

household  I  was  not  yet  acclimated  to  the  dual 
personality  of  that  kettle ;  and  after  the  first  boil- 
ing-up,  avoiding  the  Mulligan,  I  spent  the  last 
of  my  ten  dollars  on  beans  and  sinkers.  For  two 
days  I  could  live  on  twenty-five  cents.  When  my 
last  quarter  went  I  began  unloading  bananas  on 
the  docks.  I  could  make  a  few  cents  a  day  over 
meals.  Every  time  I  found  a  banana  too  ripe 
to  ship  I  slipped  it  into  my  pocket;  or  if  I  saw 
a  whole  ripe  hand  I  threw  it  under  a  pile  of  straw 
to  be  divided  in  the  Yard. 

As  every  day  I  was  expecting  to  sail  I  had  no 
letters  sent  here;  and  since  that  triumphant  mo- 
ment under  the  magnolias  I  had  not  heard  from 
Jasmine.  But  I  wrote  often  to  her,  telling  as 
much  of  my  life  as  was  expedient  and  planning 
for  that  indefinite  time  when  I  should  come  back, 
rich  and  distinguished,  to  reward  her  fidelity. 
Now  I  could  write  the  words  that  I  had  dumbly 
tried  to  speak.  But  in  spite  of  youthful  arro- 
gance I  saw  the  humour  of  the  situation.  Still 
squeamish  about  the  kettle,  either  for  laundry  or 
table  use,  I  had  not  bathed  since  I  left  home.  My 
clothes  were  greasy,  my  hair  was  unkempt.  I 
was  writing  in  a  yard  which  would  make  an  In- 
dian camp  look  like  a  model  of  sanitation,  among 
men  who  would  make  a  siwash  himself  look  as 


THE  SWALLOW  15 

if  he  had  just  stepped  from  his  valet's  hands. 
And  I  smiled  as  I  thought  where  my  letters  were 
going — to  that  dainty  little  beauty  in  the  old 
Moorish  house. 

In  the  meantime  two  weeks  had  passed.  Nu- 
merous ships  had  gone  out.  Every  half  a  hun- 
dred men  that  went  by  boat  left  a  hundred  more 
coming  in  by  train.  And  still  Marks  advertised. 
Why  he  wanted  to  supply  soup  to  more  men  than 
he  had  to,  I  could  not  understand.  When  I  got 
to  England  I  learned  how  he  paid  himself  a  high 
rate  of  interest.  For  the  present  I  was  tired  of 
waiting.  So,  armed  with  his  letter  and  my  pass- 
port, I  went  to  register  a  kick  at  the  British  con- 
sulate. There  I  ran  into  Marks  himself. 

"Look  here,"  I  said,  loud  enough  for  the  con- 
sul to  hear,  "I've  got  a  letter  from  you  promising 
me  a  job  the  day  I  get  here.  I've  watched  one 
boat  after  another  off.  What's  the  meaning  of 
this?' 

"Letter  from  me?  Vy  didn't  you  tell  me,  vy 
didn't  you  tell  me1?  Take  it  to  my  foreman.  He'll 
ship  you  at  vonce,"  he  answered,  sliding  me  out 
of  the  consul's  hearing. 

Education,  presence,  impudence — whatever  it 
was  that  enabled  me  in  my  greasy  attire  to  attack 
Marks  at  the  consul's  office,  I  was  grateful  for  it. 


16  THE  SWALLOW 

Out  of  several  hundred  men  just  as  entitled  as  I 
to  go,  I  was  scheduled  to  sail  next  day. 

Before  it  was  light  next  morning  the  chosen 
forty  were  lined  up  on  the  dock.  Our  ship  was 
the  Dunedin  from  Leith.  Our  business  was  to 
take  care  of  six  hundred  and  thirty  mules.  These 
long-eared  passengers  were  shown  more  considera- 
tion than  we;  for  while  we  were  kept  waiting  all 
day  on  the  dock,  they  were  shown  at  once  to  their 
staterooms  by  the  coloured  attendants. 

After  the  last  darky  had  run  his  mule  down  the 
chute  there  was  nothing  to  amuse  us.  It  was 
growing  dusk.  We  had  eaten  nothing  since  morn- 
ing. Just  as  we  were  getting  so  tired  and  hungry 
that  brawls  were  breaking  out  all  along  the  line, 
Marks  bustled  up. 

Marks  took  his  stand  near  the  forward  hatch 
and,  too  rapidly  for  any  one  to  hear,  read  our  ar- 
ticles. We  were  then  shoved  forward,  a  pen  was 
thrust  at  us,  and  with  Marks  screaming  at  us  to 
step  lively  and  give  the  next  fellow  a  chance,  we 
wrote  our  signatures.  We  were  in  the  dark,  we 
were  pushed  forward,  we  were  all  terrified  for 
fear  we  should  miss  our  chance  to  go.  Under 
these  conditions  no  one  tried  to  read  his  articles. 
For  all  I  knew,  I  might  have  agreed  to  murder 
my  mother  and  hand  her  jewels  over  to  Marks. 


THE  SWALLOW  17 

It  was  six  o'clock  before  we  swung  off.  Our 
quarters  were  in  the  poop  where  pine  bunks  in 
tiers  of  two  lined  the  walls.  In  the  centre  stood 
the  eating  tables.  In  one  corner  were  the  four 
faucets  and  basins  that  made  up  our  toilet  facili- 
ties. 

Out  of  the  forty  men  thirty  of  us  were  selected 
as  muleteers.  The  other  ten  were  more  highly 
specialised — the  veterinary  and  his  assistant,  the 
watchman,  carpenter,  first  and  second  cook  and 
four  foremen.  The  personnel  of  the  foremen  was 
an  Englishman,  two  ham  actors  with  red  socks 
and  pink  neckties,  and  the  head  foreman  who  had 
never  missed  a  scrap  of  any  size  from  the  Boer 
War  down.  After  one  of  these  recreational  bouts, 
when  his  nose  had  been  bitten  smoothly  off  his 
face,  he  was  known  as  Puggy. 

The  foremen,  I  discovered  as  soon  as  I  was  on 
board,  had  armed  themselves  with  clubs.  As  I 
began  to  recall  stories  of  shanghai,  my  stomach 
gave  way.  Just  then  a  fish-faced  giant  called 
Sockeye,  ambling  up  to  Puggy,  stood  looking 
down  at  him  with  his  lips  drawn  back  from  his 
teeth  in  an  attempt  at  an  amiable  smile. 

"In  the  best  naughtycal  circles,"  he  said  softly, 
knocking  the  club  out  of  Puggy's  armpit,  "gem- 
man  don't  carry  canes  on  shipboard.  Awften  and 


18  THE  SWALLOW 

awften  have  I  saw  my  friend  Rockyfeller  check 
his  cane  before  starting  a  croose  on  his  yawt,  The 
Kerosene  Kan." 

Sauntering  over  to  the  other  foremen  he  col- 
lected their  sticks  and  threw  them  overboard. 
Then  he  flashed  upon  his  superiors  a  smile  of 
benevolent  ferocity  that  nailed  them  where  they 
stood. 

But  now  less  lurid  troubles  concerned  me.  The 
Forty  had  all  been  behind  bars.  Arson,  forgery, 
murder,  vagrancy  and  vice  at  best — such  were 
their  achievements.  They  were  as  proud  of  Sock- 
eye's  distinguished  career  in  crime  as  a  mother 
whose  son  lands  in  the  Supreme  Court.  I  was 
the  only  one  in  disgrace.  I  had  never  done  time,  I 
had  never  even  been  drunk,  I  had  worked  hard, 
and  until  now  I  had  indulged  a  degenerate  taste 
for  bathing.  Worst  of  all  I  was  a  minister's  son. 

I  did  my  best  to  improve.  I  discarded  the  fork 
as  effete  and  relied  solely  upon  the  virile  knife  as 
an  aid  to  nourishment.  Even  had  I  not  been 
forced  to,  I  should  have  left  off  brushing  my 
teeth.  I  dug  up  a  crime  or  two  for  which  I  had 
escaped  hanging  only  by  desperate  cunning.  I 
would  have  jumped  overboard  sooner  than  have 
it  known  that  any  ancestor  of  mine  had  fallen  so 
low  as  to  affect  a  butler.  I  was  just  twenty,  the 


THE  SWALLOW  19 

youngest  in  the  crowd,  and  I  hoped  for  leniency 
because  of  youth.  There  was  still  time  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf.  But  in  spite  of  my  earnest  de- 
sire to  reform,  the  scent  of  the  finger-bowl  clung 
round  me  still.  To  my  shame  Sockeye  branded 
me  Percy. 

As  Percy  then  that  first  night  I  turned  in  to  my 
bunk.  I  was  fully  dressed  in  overalls,  boots, 
sweater  and  coat;  for  it  had  turned  off  bitter  on 
the  water,  particularly  after  the  warmth  of  New 
Orleans,  and  the  sweating  of  the  steel  decks  in- 
side the  poop  intensified  the  cold. 

When  Puggy  cursed  us  awake  in  the  morning 
my  face  was  raw.  I  had  got  a  rash  from  the  sack 
of  hay  that  served  as  mattress  and  pillow.  So 
after  that,  in  spite  of  the  increasing  cold  and  the 
thin  cotton  blanket,  I  always  took  off  my  coat  at 
night  and  spread  it  under  my  head.  My  best  suit 
I  kept  in  my  bag  in  the  locker  under  my  bunk. 

I  was  gingerly  feeling  the  beefsteak  I  wore  for 
a  countenance  that  first  morning  when  I  saw 
Sockeye  shaking  the  shoulder  of  Stiffy,  the  lum- 
berjack snoring  beside  me. 

"Algrenon,"  minced  Sockeye,  "draw  Mastah 
Puhcy's  bawth  and  lay  out  his  little  velvick  soot." 

"I   hern    Stiffy 's    sawmill    runnin'    the    night 


20  THE  SWALLOW 

shift,"  put  in  one  of  the  men  as  Stiffy's  breath- 
ing sharpened  from  a  rumble  to  a  buzz. 

"Yes,  and  cuttin'  a  mighty  poor  grade  of  tim- 
ber, too,"  commented  Sockeye,  sinking  a  long, 
spare  elbow  in  Stiffy's  side. 

I  rolled  to  my  feet.  In  a  choppy  sea  the  little 
tramp  was  bucking  like  a  broncho,  now  pitching 
forward  on  her  nose,  now  rearing  back  on  her 
hind  legs,  then  coming  down  stiff  on  all  fours.  It 
was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  been  on  the  ocean. 
I  staggered  to  the  table. 

The  "slum"  of  beef  broth  and  hardtack  left 
over  from  last  night's  supper  was  fried  for  break- 
fast. There  was  no  coffee.  But  if  I  had  sat  down 
to  chilled  strawberries  or  hot  waffles  I  couldn't 
have  touched  them.  After  one  night  the  stench 
alone  was  enough  to  put  a  man  off  his  food.  I 
didn't  need  that  rolling  sea  to  make  me  fast. 

The  six  hundred  odd  mules  were  quartered  in 
the  hold,  crosswise,  faces  towards  the  inside  of  the 
ship,  tails  to  the  water.  The  stalls  were  so  small 
that  the  keeper  could  not  get  in  beside  the  mule; 
in  fact  they  were  too  small  for  the  mules  to  move. 
Each  mule  was  tied  to  a  headboard  coming  to  his 
shoulders.  To  this  was  strapped  a  tin  pan  for  his 
grain.  Two  quarts  of  oats,  one  of  bran  and  all 
the  hay  he  could  eat  was  the  daily  ration.  When 


THE  SWALLOW  21 

we  weren't  carrying  hay  we  were  fetching  water 
from  the  tanks  at  the  end  of  the  deck. 

Three  of  us  were  assigned  aft  to  thirty  mules 
— Snake,  the  half-breed,  Chuck  and  myself. 

"Get  out,  you  lily-livered  sons  of  corpses,  and 
feed  them  mules,"  Fuggy  rallied  us  that  first 
morning  as  we  rose  distastefully  from  the  fried 
slum. 

"Mastah  Puhcy's  appetite  has  been  delicate  of 
late,"  simpered  Sockeye,  twisting  an  imaginary 
bracelet  on  his  hairy  wrist.  "His  papa  and  me 
took  him  to  see  Dr.  Bigbugs,  the  most  ixpensive 
pheezishun  in  Noo  York,  and  the  doctor  said  a  sea 
voyage  would  do  him  a  world  of  good.  Run  out 
now,  Puhcy,  and  breathe  the  oozone." 

Had  I  not  been  otherwise  engaged  I  should  have 
suffered  under  Sockeye' s  affronts.  But  imagine  a 
first  attack  of  sea-sickness.  Imagine  it  magnified 
by  filthy  food,  filthy  men,  filthy  quarters.  Imag- 
ine climbing  over  steam-pipes  and  bales  of  hay  or 
scrambling  up  and  down  ladders,  a  pail  of  water 
or  a  measure  of  grain  in  each  hand.  Imagine  that 
the  mules  were  as  sick  as  you  and  no  respecters  of 
persons.  Twelve  hours  of  it  with  no  surcease. 
Twelve  hours  of  tossing,  deathly  sick  and  sleep- 
less, on  my  bunk.  Then  another  day  when  I  was 
too  sick  to  bear  the  sight  of  food,  when  I  stag- 


22  THE  SWALLOW 

gered  up  and  down  the  deck,  across  the  steam- 
pipes,  over  bales  of  hay,  a  bucket  in  each  hand — 
up  and  down,  up  and  down.  No  wonder  Sock- 
eye's  taunts  failed  to  draw  blood.  I  was  no  longer 
a  being  with  sensibilities.  I  was  a  contrivance  for 
feeding  mules.  I  ticked  off  only  two  emotions. 
One  was  the  determination  to  stay  on  the  job. 
The  other  was  a  hunger  for  cleanliness  and  women 
and  affection.  I  was  sick  for  my  mother  and  for 
Jasmine,  a  sickness  that  absorbed  and  dilated  with 
bodily  pain. 

But  while  rough  seas  rolled  through  the  scrip- 
tural span,  at  the  end  of  the  third  day  a  dove  of 
peace  descended  upon  me.  And  I  say  with  pride 
that  although  I  had  neither  eaten  nor  slept  during 
that  time,  not  one  of  my  charges  missed  a  grain 
of  his  oats  or  ever  suffered  for  water. 

The  poor  mules!  We  had  now  struck  the 
northern  cold  and  some  of  them  died  of  conges- 
tion of  the  lungs.  The  rest  were  shivering  and 
seasick  and  angry.  To  keep  them  from  breaking 
their  halters  we  had  to  tie  their  heads  fast  with 
ropes,  soaked  in  oakum  so  they  would  not  eat 
them.  We  had  also  to  fasten  them  so  tight  that 
they  could  not  chew  each  other's  necks. 

The  seas  were  running  clear  over  the  boat  at 
times.  The  winds  were  so  bitter  that  the  upper 


THE  SWALLOW  23 

deck  where  I  worked  was  slippery  with  sleet.  It 
was  no  easy  thing  to  keep  my  footing  on  those 
glassy  slopes  over  which  I  slid  with  the  water 
buckets,  back  and  forth,  a  hundred  times  a  day. 
I  was  glad  therefore  when  I  was  transferred  to  the 
lower  hold  where  I  had  at  least  the  protection  of 
the  deck.  Here  I  took  care  of  fifty  mules  with 
Shorty,  a  pigmy  of  six  feet  six.  The  two  of  us 
cleaned  up  our  work  as  well  as  we  could  but  we 
were  short-handed.  This  I  remedied  unexpectedly 
along  with  another  disturbance. 

"We're  off  the  Banks,"  announced  Fuggy  one 
morning  at  slum.  Some  one  began  to  whistle 
"Banks  and  Braes." 

"Yep,"  repeated  Puggy,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand  to  the  north,  "the  Banks  is  over  there." 

I  whved  my  hand  towards  the  mules. 

"The  Brays,"  I  ventured,  "are  down  there." 

"Haw,  haw!"  guffawed  the  foreman. 

Encouraged  by  his  good  humour  I  seized  the  mo- 
ment to  ask  a  favour. 

"Puggy,  Shorty  and  I  have  too  much  work." 

"All  right,"  said  Peggy,  "you  can  have  Monny. 
He's  no  good  anyhow." 

When  we  arose  from  slum  I  attempted  to  claim 
my  treasure. 

"I    need    Monny   myself,    Miss    Percy,"    an- 


24  THE  SWALLOW 

nounced  Red,  one  of  the  ham  actors  with  the  scar- 
let hose.  As  if  that  settled  it,  he  turned  away. 

"Puggy  said  we  could  have  Monny,"  I  pro- 
tested. 

"Close  your  baby  face,  Perce,  or  I'll  slap  it  up 
to  a  peak  and  knock  the  peak  off." 

"It  would  take  a  man  to  do  that,"  I  retorted 
loftily. 

I  had  tried  to  prove  by  the  way  I  handled  my 
work  that  Percy  was  a  misnomer.  I  had  not  suc- 
ceeded. Now  though  my  knees  wobbled  I  was 
thirsting  for  a  fight. 

With  a  grunt  Red  jumped  me.  I  was  five  feet 
eleven  to  his  six  feet,  and  was  some  twenty  pounds 
lighter.  I  was  wiry  but  my  muscles  had  not  yet 
cemented. 

His  left  went  up  for  a  guard,  his  right  shot  for 
my  jaw. 

"Red's  beatin'  up  Percy!"  shouted  Shorty  to 
the  crowd  of  muleteers  scattering  to  their  various 
posts.  "Red's  beatin'  up  Percy!" 

Even  as  I  jerked  my  head,  even  as  Red's  fist 
glanced  my  jaw,  I  could  hear  the  cries  swell  into  a 
roar:  "Red's  beatin'  up  Percy!" 

As  far  as  brute  strength  goes  he  could  have 
mangled  me.  My  chief  asset  was  a  clear  head.  As 
I  feinted  with  my  left  I  landed  with  the  right.  I 


THE  SWALLOW  25 

had  caught  him  behind  the  ear.  He  went  down 
flat.  Then  I  heard  the  roar  changing  to :  "Percy's 
beat  up  Red !  Percy's  beat  up  Red !" 

Red  got  to  his  feet  just  in  time  to  meet  Sock- 
eye's  terrifying  smile  as  he  said  in  the  caressing 
tone  reserved  for  putting  foremen  in  their  place : 

"You  old  stewbum,  you  dish  of  slumgullion,  if 
you  ever  touch  that  kid  again  I'll — I'll — hisf 
voice  grew  softer  and  more  terrible — "I'll  eat  you 
up!  The  way  he  stuck  to  them  mules,  tendin' 
them  like  a  mother  and  him  sick  as  one  of  them 
hisself  with  you  rottin'  in  your  bunk!  I'll  eat 
you  up!" 

He  wheeled  about,  shoved  aside  the  men  who 
were  shaking  my  hand  and  gave  me  a  whack  on 
the  back  that  sent  me  spinning. 

I  have  been  decorated  since  then  by  the  French 
government.  But  never  have  I  felt  such  pride  as 
thrilled  through  me  with  the  realisation  that  at 
last  I  was  a  member  in  good  standing  with  the 
Forty.  Percy  I  remained  but  Percy  was  no  longer 
a  badge  of  shame.  It  was  a  term  of  endearment. 
And  Sockeye,  who  had  first  fastened  it  to  me,  now 
invited  me  to  go  buddy  with  him ! 

This  fellowship  shortened  the  rest  of  the  trip. 
We  used  to  sit  about  the  stove  in  the  poop  at  night 
playing  blackjack,  listening  to  Sockeye's  intimate 


26  THE  SWALLOW 

babble  of  J.  Pierp,  John  D.  and  Andy  C.,  or  sing- 
ing "barber  harmony." 

There  were  not  only  many  good  natural  voices 
among  the  men  but  a  few  finely  trained  ones — 
voices  that  had  been  heard  in  light  opera  or  church 
choirs  before  their  owners  had  become  outcast. 
"Going  Down  the  River,"  "Tipperary,"  which  had 
just  hit  America  hard,  and  "Oh,  Eveline"  were 
among  the  favourites.  Then  there  were  ribald 
songs  I  do  not  dare  name,  songs  known  to  every 
hobo  from  Mobile  to  Missoula.  But  the  selection 
that  impressed  me  most  was  still  another. 

Whenever  I  hear  "Abide  With  Me"  I  see  two 
pictures.  The  first  is  in  the  little  church  at  home. 
I  see  a  weeping  congregation — the  widow  of  the 
sexton,  the  greaser  vendor  of  tamales,  the  com- 
mander of  the  fort,  the  tall,  spare  banker,  Jase- 
mine  Gray,  my  eyes  seeking  hers  for  comfort — 
all  who  had  come  within  touch  of  my  father's  lov- 
ing spirit.  I  see  my  mother,  tragic  in  her  tearless- 
ness.  I  see  the  bishop  as  he  repeats  the  solemn 
conviction  that  the  flesh  is  futile  and  only  the  soul 
triumphant.  I  see  my  father's  figure  in  the  flower- 
heaped  casket  and  the  gentle  face  dimmed  of  all 
expression  now  save  for  a  thirsty  look  as  if  he  were 
drinking  rest.  Then  from  the  choir  loft  I  hear 


THE  SWALLOW  27 

four  voices  breaking  as  they  sing  "Abide  With 
Me." 

The  second  picture  is  in  the  poop  on  the  mule 
ship.  Around  the  red  quivering  stove  men  lie  on 
bunks,  on  tables,  on  the  floor.  Such  men !  Whisk- 
ered and  ragged,  the  foul  odours  of  their  bodies 
mingled  with  the  foul  odours  of  the  ship,  the  stale 
fumes  of  food,  the  reek  of  bad  tobacco.  Even 
through  their  obscene  ditties  the  emotional  appeal 
of  music  reaches  them.  The  same  appeal  in  popu- 
lar hits  or  church  hymns,  it  lifts  them  to  some- 
thing higher.  From  coarse  ballads  to  ragtime, 
from  ragtime  to  sacred  music  they  pass.  Evil  of 
mind,  vile  of  tongue,  selfish  and  slothful  and  ruth- 
less as  wolves,  for  the  moment  and  for  the  moment 
only  a  softer  feeling  possesses  them — a  feeling  for 
home,  for  women,  for  some  strange  God  of  their 
own.  Sockeye's  melting  tenor  soars  above  the  rest. 
And  forty  voices  chant  in  four-part  harmony 
"Abide  With  Me." 

Another  and  more  sordid  pastime  for  those  eve- 
nings about  the  stove  was  known  as  reading  the 
news.  Then  would  the  men  peel  off  their  shirts 
and  diligently  search  for  "crumbs"  as  the  grey- 
backs  were  called.  Reading  the  news  was  prac- 
tically the  only  attempt  at  cleanliness.  The 
water  was  so  bad  that  it  was  less  filthy  to  go  dirty 


28  THE  SWALLOW 

than  try  to  be  clean.    During  the  three  weeks  on 
board  I  washed  my  face  just  six  times. 

Drinking  water  was  almost  as  offensive  as  wash- 
ing water.  We  drank  from  the  mule-tanks  which 
were  filled  with  the  mud  of  the  Mississippi  River. 
Food  was  even  worse.  We  lived  on  rotten  tinned 
beef  that  was  boiled  at  noon,  fried  at  night  for 
hash  and  fried  over  with  hardtack  for  breakfast. 
There  was  neither  coffee  nor  bread.  There  was 
however  a  ton  or  more  of  carrots  for  the  mules. 
The  carrots  rotted  and  during  our  leisure  moments 
Shorty,  Monny  and  I  had  to  cut  away  the  de- 
cayed spots  so  that  the  remainder  could  be  served 
to  us. 

"Anything  our  long- faced  friends  don't  want 
we'se  welcome  to,"  Monny  expressed  it. 

The  routine  of  the  carrot  was  the  same  as  that 
of  canned  beef — boiled  at  noon,  fried  at  night, 
fried  again  for  breakfast.  After  a  few  months  of 
service  at  the  front  a  man  is  not  fussy  about  his 
food.  But  it's  all  I  can  do  now  to  sit  at  the  same 
table  with  a  carrot. 

"You're  not  much  of  a  student,"  my  mother 
used  to  say  grudgingly.  "But  you  seem  to  have 
a  gift  for  the  way  out." 

I  found  the  way  out  now. 
.  The  officers  on  deck  of  course  had  much  better 


THE  SWALLOW  29 

meals  than  ours.  Among  other  luxuries  they  ate 
bread  every  day.  I  enjoyed  a  calling  acquaintance 
with  Slim,  the  cook.  And  one  evening  I  sauntered 
up  to  watch  him  at  his  baking  which  had  to  be 
done  at  night.  The  smell  of  fresh  bread  tanta- 
lised me  unbearably. 

"It  must  be  hard  to  work  all  night,"  I  com- 
mented. 

"Damned  hard." 

"Don't  you  almost  go  to  sleep?" 

"Droppin5  in  my  tracks  this  minnit." 

"I'll  bake  your  bread  if  you  want  to  put  over 
a  nap,"  I  suggested.  "Used  to  be  a  baker  my- 
self." 

Slim  looked  at  me  suspiciously  but  I  told  him 
enough  to  convince  him  that  I  knew  how  to  bake. 
Off  he  went  and  slept  for  three  hours. 

"Can  I  have  a  piece  of  bread*?"  I  asked  when 
he  returned. 

"Sure,"  said  he  hospitably. 

He  broke  off  a  thick  chunk  which  I  ate  as  only 
an  American  can  who  has  not  touched  bread  for 
two  weeks. 

The  next  night  I  offered  myself  again. 

"Ye  don't  need  to  wait  till  I  git  back  for  that 
there  hunk  of  bread,"  he  said  expansively  as  he 
went  off  to  his  nap. 


30  THE  SWALLOW 

I  didn't  stop  at  bread.  Among  the  officers'  ra- 
tions I  found  some  sacks  of  potatoes  and  onions. 
Slipping  out  a  few  of  each  I  fried  them  over  Slim's 
stove.  By  the  time  he  caught  me  we  were  such 
good  friends  that  he  never  saw  me  when  I  pre- 
pared my  nightly  supper  of  hot  lyonnaise  potatoes. 

By  stealing  next  from  the  mules  and  the  coolie 
crew  I  supplemented  the  fare  for  the  whole  Forty. 
I  discovered  that  the  crew  of  Chinks  had  refused 
to  work  without  a  special  bread  of  Chinese  fish. 
There  were  sacks  of  these  dried  fish  in  the  galley 
and  every  night  I  pulled  a  few  out  by  their  tails 
to  drag  back  to  our  cabin.  Then  filling  one  of  the 
mule  buckets  half  way  up  with  water  and  a  hand- 
ful of  the  rock  salt  that  belonged  to  the  animals,  I 
set  it  on  the  stove.  When  it  came  to  a  boil  I 
poured  in  some  meal  also  filched  from  the  don- 
keys. This  would  cook  up  to  a  brimming  bucket 
of.  hot  oatmeal  which  we  ate  with  chunks  of  dried 
fish. 

"The  more  mule  fodder  we  eat  the  less  our  long- 
faced  friends  will  founder,"  said  Monny  philan- 
thropically,  slipping  hot  porridge  down  his  throat. 

Thanks  to  this  intervention  none  of  the  mules 
did  founder.  But  Sally  did  worse. 

Sally  had  red  hair  and  the  disposition  that  goes 


THE  SWALLOW  31 

with  it.  Any  devilment  she  could  execute  was 
never  too  much  trouble  for  Sally. 

"Sally  got  a  cold  in  her  head  last  night,"  I  said 
one  morning  to  the  vet. 

"Sally  would,"  was  all  the  sympathy  extended 
either  to  Sally  or  her  keeper. 

"Why  don't  you  sponge  out  her  nostrils  with 
warm  water  and  creosote*?"  asked  Shorty. 

"Why  don't  I  brush  a  hyena's  teeth *?"  retort- 
ed I. 

Nevertheless  I  undertook  the  delicate  operation 
of  spraying  Sally's  aquiline  nose.  Shorty  stood  by 
with  words  of  comfort  and  advice. 

Sally  made  a  few  preliminary  expostulations. 
She  made  them  resonantly  but  ineffectually.  She 
then  opened  the  real  debate  with  the  good  old  fem- 
inine argument  of  biting.  I  rebutted  by  slam- 
ming her  over  the  head  with  a  bucket. 


'Be  gentle  with  your  little  boy 
Beat  him  when  he  sneezes; 
He  only  does  it  to  annoy 
Because  he  knows  it  teases." 


Shorty  was  singing.  Even  at  this  intense  mo- 
ment I  wondered  how  Shorty  happened  to  be  fa- 
miliar with  this  nonsense  classic — perhaps  it  had 
been  quoted  in  some  musical  comedy.  But  I  could 


32  THE  SWALLOW 

waste  only  a  second  on  Shorty's  pursuits.  For 
Sally  advanced  a  powerful  a  priori  argument,  fol- 
lowed it  by  a  smashing  a  fortiori,  dealt  a  few 
scattering  but  well-chosen  kicks  and  closed  the  de- 
bate by  an  irrefutable  argument  with  her  head 
that  left  her  opponent  no  ground  to  stand  upon. 
The  debate  was  unanimously  adjudged  in  favour 
of  the  negative. 

"Rope  her  head,"  shouted  Shorty  as  I  picked 
myself  up  and  out  of  the  way  of  the  dancing 
Sally.  "You  gotta  handle  her  as  if  she  was  a 
woman.  Rope  her  head!" 

"Stroke  her  ears  if  you're  that  intimate  with 
her,"  I  snarled,  caressing  my  arm  from  which 
Sally  had  neatly  clipped  a  piece. 

"Give  me  the  rope,  you  poor  fish,"  said  Shorty. 
"Now,  you  little  she-devil,  you  little  hellion" — 
he  looked  masterfully  in  her  eye — "I'll  learn  you 

Six  feet  six  of  Shorty  lay  on  the  deck.  Sally 
stood  on  top  of  him.  She  had  turned  a  somersault 
over  the  headboard  to  which  she  was  still  tied! 
Her  neck  was  twisted  like  a  rope,  her  head  was 
held  in  a  vice  against  the  outside  of  the  board,  but 
her  figure  was  erect.  Her  tail  waved  breezily 
over  Shorty's  prostrate  form.  The  feat  would 
have  broken  any  one's  neck  but  Sally's. 


THE  SWALLOW  33 

It  took  half  a  dozen  of  us  to  lift  her  off,  stand 
her  on  her  head  till  we  could  untwist  her  neck  and 
hold  her  while  the  vet,  who  felt  at  last  that  here 
was  a  patient  worthy  his  professional  interest, 
washed  out  her  nostrils. 

Sally  had  one  unswerving  admirer  on  board  and 
only  one.  This  was  Pete,  the  big  grey  mule  who 
stood  beside  her.  Like  many  giants,  Pete,  who 
knew  no  fear  before  any  one  his  own  size  and  sex, 
was  completely  subjugated  by  the  little  minx.  So 
enchanted  was  he  with  her  dash  and  spirit  that 
he  even  gave  her  his  hay.  With  doglike  devotion 
in  his  eyes  he  would  push  it  over  to  her.  Would 
Sally  then  bray:  "You  keep  it,  Pete,"  or  "Thank 
you,  I  will  have  a  little  more  if  you  can  spare  it"  *? 
No,  without  a  word  of  thanks  Sally  would  dis- 
pose of  the  hay,  snapping  between  bites  at  Peter 
who  seemed  grateful  even  for  this  attention.  If 
Sally  had  been  a  biped  she  would  have  belonged  to 
that  class  of  women  who  say:  "You  can't  treat  a 
husband  like  a  human  being."  And  she'd  have 
married  some  big  brute  who  would  have  stood  for 
her,  just  as  Pete  did.  I  often  wondered,  had  Pete 
asserted  himself,  if  Sally  wouldn't  have  given  him 
a  better  deal.  The  only  time  he  ever  did  I  thought 
I  saw  a  glint  of  admiration  in  her  eye. 

This  was  the  morning  we  ran  up  the  harbour  of 


34  THE  SWALLOW 

Dublin.  We  had  been  ordered  to  discharge  the 
mules.  To  a  man  we  refused.  Running  mules 
into  a  chute  was  a  darky's  job.  Besides  we  were 
within  reach  of  land  and  brimming  with  spirits. 
Here  too  was  a  chance  to  get  even  with  the  ship- 
master for  the  dirty  deal  he  had  handed  us,  here 
when  it  was  too  late  for  him  to  retaliate.  And 
when  the  captain  realised  that  we  were  not  going 
to  unload  those  mules  he  sent  for  a  company  of 
raw  Irish  recruits  fresh  from  the  bogs  on  their 
way  to  the  front. 

The  mules,  as  I  have  said,  were  boxed  so  closely 
that  they  could  scarcely  move.  As  our  contract 
called  for  cleaning  them  we  led  them  one  at  a  time 
out  on  deck  and  scraped  them  off  as  well  as  we 
could.  This  was  not  very  well  and  when  they 
were  run  on  shore  at  Dublin  they  were  still  thickly 
caked  with  manure  and  New  Orleans  mud. 
Lounging  about  the  dock,  we  enjoyed  the  struggles 
of  the  Irish  with  the  shaggy  beasts. 

A  darky  fulfils  all  the  yearnings  of  the  mulish 
heart.  The  Irish  on  the  contrary  lacked  not  only 
a  native  affinity  but  experience  as  well.  They 
had  never  even  seen  a  mule.  Any  darky  knows 
that  a  mule  can  not  be  led.  But  here  was  a  small 
bog-trotter  trying  to  lead  three  at  once  across  the 
drawbridge. 


THE  SWALLOW  35 

One  of  the  three  was  Pete.  While  his  two  com- 
panions pulled  for  opposing  shores  Pete  stood 
firm.  His  four  feet,  spread  apart,  seemed  driven 
into  the  dock.  His  peaceful  eye  was  half  closed. 

Pat  dropped  the  other  two  ropes  and  applied 
himself  to  Pete.  Tall  and  grey  and  rock-ribbed 
as  a  mountain  Pete  paid  no  more  attention  to  him 
than  if  he  were  a  mosquito. 

"They're  desert  canaries — put  salt  on  their 
tails  and  hear  'em  sing,"  called  out  one  of  our 
wits. 

"Get  behind  and  push,"  suggested  another. 

This  advice  appealed  to  Pat  as  more  practical. 
He  trustingly  obeyed. 

Without  opening  his  sunny  eye  Pete  doubled 
his  right  hind  leg.  Pat  hurtled  through  the  air 
like  a  baseball.  Then  not  deigning  to  glance  be- 
hind him  the  desert  canary  threw  back  his  head, 
lifted  his  voice — such  a  voice  as  had  never  before 
been  heard  in  Dublin — and  singing  passionately 
raced  back  and  forth  across  the  drawbridge.  It 
was  as  if  Gibraltar,  tired  of  its  reputation  for 
steadiness,  had  gone  vigorously  to  sowing  its  wild 
oats. 

Men  and  mules  cleared  the  path.  All  but  Sally 
who  did  not  move.  It  was  evident  that  she  expect- 
ed Pete  to  get  out  of  her  way.  But  Pete  neither 


36  THE  SWALLOW 

swerved  nor  slackened.  When  he  was  within  a 
foot  of  her  Sally  gave  one  bound  with  as  much  dig- 
nity as  her  health  would  allow.  Whether  her 
music  loving  soul  vibrated  to  that  ringing  voice; 
whether,  herself  an  artist  at  the  hoof,  she  admired 
his  technique ;  whether  she  suspected  that  Pete  was 
more  of  a  rake  than  she  had  given  him  credit  for 
— I  don't  know.  But  as  she  moved  out  of  reach 
of  those  compelling  legs  she  flung  him  a  glance 
over  her  shoulder.  There  was  a  softened  look  in 
her  eye  and  her  ears  twitched  meltingly. 

By  this  time  I  was  feeling  sorry  for  Pat.  So 
when  Pete  drew  up  with  the  air  of  a  Caruso  taking 
his  curtain  call,  I  jumped  on  his  back  and  rode  him 
over  the  drawbridge.  The  other  mules  of  course 
followed.  Pat  and  his  compatriots  were  stunned 
by  this  simple  method. 

"The  next  bit  on  our  programme,  gentlemen," 
barked  Monny,  seeing  their  open-mouthed  ad- 
miration, "will  be  by  Percy,  the  Donk's  Delight!" 

When  I  again  saw  the  American  ponies,  as  the 
Irish  called  them,  they  were  doing  heroic  service 
at  the  front.  Upon  renewing  my  acquaintance 
with  them  I  learned  that  they  had  risen  from  the 
"Maude"  of  American  song  to  the  more  patrician 
title  of  Percy.  I  often  wondered  if  the  honour 
were  mine! 


THE  SWALLOW  37 

"Kept  this  open  to  give  you  my  impressions  of 
Dublin,"  I  wrote  that  afternoon  on  the  letter  I  had 
been  composing  to  Jasmine  all  the  way  across. 
"So  far  they  consist  of  heads  and  feet.  The 
cops,  whales  to  begin  with,  have  spikes  on  their 
helmets  that  make  them  look  about  seven  feet  six. 
'Pipe  the  size  of  the  bull,'  was  all  the  men  could 
say  as  we  landed.  Fortunately  every  cop  we've 
seen  so  far  has  a  brother  on  the  New  York  police 
force  which  makes  him  adopt  all  Americans  into 
the  bosom  of  his  family.  And  as  for  feet — well, 
I  haven't  seen  a  pair  of  shoes  in  Dublin  that 
weren't  shined.  No  matter  how  poorly  dressed, 
how  ragged  or  dirty  a  man  is  his  boots  are  polished 
as  an  egg. 

"I  set  sail  with  the  fortune  of  one  dollar  that  I 
had  amassed  loading  bananas.  It  was  still  intact 
this  morning;  so  in  order  to  absorb  local  colour  I 
set  up  a  couple  of  the  boys  to  Guiness'  Stout  and 
a  box  of  Pell  Mells.  (N.  B.  Observe  pronuncia- 
tion.) After  this  debauch  I  had  just  a  sixpence 
left  and  Puggy  borrowed  that.  I  was  so  flattered 
at  having  a  sixpence  to  lend  a  foreman  that  I  didn't 
mind  the  financial  reverse.  Not  till  afterwards  did 
I  remember  that  I  had  to  get  postage  for  this  let- 
ter from  that  sixpence.  Well,  I'm  a  bold  financier 
and  I'll  raise  that  two  cents  if  I  have  to  sell  my 


38  THE  SWALLOW 

boots.  When  Puggy  saw  my  pride  in  giving  him 
a  sixpence  he  said  graciously,  'That's  a  good  pair 
of  kicks  you  got  there,  Perce — I  might  wear  them 
up  town.'  This  suggestion  has  been  made  by  every 
man  on  board.  But  I  cling  to  those  boots  as  a 
monk  to  his  immortal  soul — pun  not  intended. 
They're  my  one  valuable  possession  and  I'm  sav- 
ing them  against  the  time  when  I'm  strapped — I 
mean  when  I'm  on  my  uppers.  (This  letter  looks 
all  broken  out  with  puns  but  they  are  not  inten- 
tional.) Anyway  nothing  short  of  a  stamp  for 
this  letter  shall  wring  those  boots  from  me." 

The  boots  were  preserved  to  meet  the  need  I 
had  expected.  The  postage  came  through  another 
channel. 

Following  a  crowd  of  our  men  up  a  street  I  saw 
Black  and  Chuck  disappear.  From  their  hang-dog 
look  I  suspected  a  crooked  deal  and  sauntered  after 
them.  I  watched  them  go  down  under  a  little 
bridge  where  they  met  another  man  apparently 
by  appointment.  I  edged  along  till  I  was  close 
enough  to  see  Chuck  handling  a  curry-comb. 
Ready  to  put  up  any  kind  of  a  bluff  to  make  two 
cents  I  yelled,  "Hey,  Chuck,  what  you  doing  with 
my  curry-comb*?" 

"Who  said  this  was  your  comb*?"  asked  Chuck, 
jumping  around  like  a  startled  rabbit. 


THE  SWALLOW  39 

"I  said  so,"  I  answered  noisily. 

"Howdju  know  it's  your  comb1?" 

"How'd  I  know?" 

At  this  delicate  question  I  caught  sight  of  the 
letter  P  cut  into  the  back.  I  recognised  it  at  once 
as  Puggy's. 

"Don't  you  know  the  alphabet  yet1?"  I  de- 
manded angrily.  "There's  P  for  Percy." 

"Well,  I  guess  you  caught  me  with  the  goods, 
Perce,"  Chuck  conceded.  "We  was  just  disposin' 
of  a  few  things  to  this  here  gentleman.  He  runs 
a  liver  stable." 

"Of  course  if  the  liver  stable  gentleman  wants 
this  comb,"  I  said,  "I'll  let  it  go  for  sixpence." 

The  gentleman  took  it  at  my  price.  He  took 
also  about  a  dozen  other  combs  and  brushes  the 
two  men  had  tucked  in  their  pockets.  I  bought 
some  stamps.  As  I  mailed  mother's  letter  and  put 
Jasmine's  in  my  pocket  for  a  last  postscript,  I 
wondered  what  those  two  women  would  think  if 
they  knew  my  arrival  on  foreign  soil  was  an- 
nounced by  means  of  a  stolen  curry-comb.  Again 
my  sense  of  honour  had  made  concession ;  I  would 
not  steal  carrots  from  a  vegetable  cart  but  I  would 
sell  a  curry-comb  from  the  Dunedin!  Seeing  this 
act  through  my  mother's  eyes,  I  found  it  taking 
on  an  ugly  aspect;  and  I  resolved  to  drift  into  no 


40  THE  SWALLOW 

more  easy  little  thefts.  My  remorse  was  not 
shared  by  the  others  who  were  so  sore  at  the  treat- 
ment we  had  received  on  a  British  transport  that 
they  declared  anything  they  could  filch  from  any 
one  in  the  British  Isles  would  be  just  retribution. 
And  it  was  in  pursuit  of  this  policy  that,  when  I 
.went  into  a  shop  to  buy  postals  with  my  remain- 
ing two  cents,  half  a  dozen  mule-skinners  attended 
me.  It  was  not  till  later  that  I  knew  why.  They 
came  out  richer  by  several  dollars  worth  of  pens, 
paper  and  pencils.  The  same  principle  of  sabo- 
tage was  applied  to  a  restaurant  where  the  boys 
set  up  ham  and  eggs  with  the  proceeds  of  the  curry- 
combs; and  where,  in  spite  of  my  protests,  salts, 
peppers,  spoons,  even  vinegar-cruets  were  rapidly 
disappearing. 

"If  you  wanna  kiss  the  hand  that  feeds  you 
slum,  all  right,  Miss  Percy,"  said  Black,  when  a 
tobacco-shop  was  next  threatened  by  our  patron- 
age. "Here's  a  sixpence.  Go  as  far  as  you  like." 

The  gleam  of  unnatural  goodness  in  his  eye  was 
not  belied.  While  I  bought  cigarettes  with  the 
sixpence,  a  quiet  but  effectual  activity  prevailed 
among  my  friends.  Snake,  who  had  stowed  away 
a  big  tin  of  cigarettes,  was  following  it  with  a 
mate  when  Whitey,  who  had  no  pockets,  attempt- 
ed to  help  him  to  a  third.  The  two  tins  banged 


THE  SWALLOW  41 

together.    The  girl  behind  the  counter  looked  up 
sharply. 

"Give  me  back  those  cigarettes,"  she  cried. 

There  were  loud  protestations.  Outraged  hon- 
esty was  in  every  voice. 

"I'll  call  an  officer,"  she  threatened,  planting 
herself  in  the  doorway. 

It  was  a  disconcerting  moment.  Snake  dared 
not  pull  out  one  tin  for  fear  it  would  disgorge 
others.  Disclosures  by  an  officer  would  be  equal- 
ly embarrassing. 

The  girl  put  her  hand  on  a  bell.  Just  then  Wil- 
liams stepped  forward. 

"One  moment,  madam,"  said  he,  flashing  his 
gold  teeth  upon  her.  "What  are  you  talking 
about V 

"Those  two  men  stole  a  tin  of  cigarettes,"  she 
answered,  "and  I'm  going  to  have  an  officer  in." 

"Well,  if  those  two  poor  fellows  who  have 
been  doing  military  service  for  your  country,  ma- 
dam  " 

"He  means  mulitary  service,"  whispered  Sock- 
eye  to  me. 

" If  they  want  a  little  thing  like  a  box  of 

cigarettes,  they  shall  have  it.    I'll  pay  for  it  my- 
self." 

He  threw  down  the  price  of  one  tin. 


42  THE  SWALLOW 

"Now,  gentlemen,  is  there  anything  else  I  can 
get  to  show  my  respect  for  you*?" 

The  gentlemen  modestly  disclaimed  further  tes- 
timonial. This  restraint  met  its  own  reward. 
Taking  stock  a  safe  distance  away,  we  estimated 
that  we  had  repaid  ourselves  for  service  to  the 
British  government  by  at  least  fifteen  dollars' 
worth  of  pipes  and  tobacco. 

Thus  buttressed  with  smokes,  we  set  out  in  a 
body  that  night  to  see  Dublin.  "Where's  the 
main  stem1?"  was  the  chorus  that  greeted  every 
policeman.  I  dropped  behind  to  mail  my  letter  to 
Jasmine.  Then  guided  by  the  noise  in  a  nearby 
saloon,  I  pushed  open  the  door.  The  reflection  in 
the  mirror  on  the  opposite  wall  gave  me  the  first 
sight  of  myself.  My  sweater  and  overalls  had 
some  time  ago  become  fodder  for  Sally.  I  was 
now  protruding  from  a  Salvation  Army  costume 
that  Puggy  had  traded  for  my  fountain  pen. 
Through  the  hat  that  Puggy  had  lavishly  thrown 
in,  my  hair  pushed  up  in  ambitious  bunches. 

My  companions  were  equally  arresting.  Monny 
shrank  far  into  the  recesses  of  a  suit  he  had  pur- 
chased from  Sockeye.  Shorty,  like  Marco  Bozza- 
ris,  was  bursting  at  every  vein  of  the  frock  coat  he 
had  picked  up  at  a  rummage  sale.  Stiffy,  the  most 
sustained  in  attire,  wore  a  lumberman's  shirt  and 


THE  SWALLOW  43 

corduroys.  Hoggy,  the  second  cook,  had  once 
been  a  bandsman ;  now  in  his  faded  livery  of  ma- 
roon and  black  he  sat  playing  the  piano  while 
Chuck,  in  a  blanket  coat  and  chaps,  passed  the  hat. 
The  proceeds  were  to  go  for  drinks. 

Inspired  to  provide  a  tobacco  fund,  I  composed 
an  Indian  dance.  It  consisted  of  running  back  and 
forth  on  my  haunches,  singing,  "Icta,  mika,  tiki, 
close  ole  cloochman."  This  I  punctuated  with  a 
sturdy  yelp  by  way  of  war-whoop,  which  con- 
firmed my  audience  in  its  hope  that  America  is 
peopled  largely  by  savages.  My  gate  receipts,  as 
a  consequence,  were  heavy. 

Through  its  mysterious  channels  the  whole 
night-world  of  Dublin  had  heard  of  our  arrival. 
We  left  not  a  saloon  unturned;  and  all  the  gam- 
blers and  thugs  in  the  city,  I  think,  were  on  our 
trail.  So,  too,  were  those  other  denizens  of  the 
underworld.  Moths  of  the  street,  painted  and 
haggard  and  gay,  drawn  by  the  new  arrivals,  I 
watched  them  swirling  and  eddying  to  the  gas- 
light. 

We  were  passing  a  station  on  our  way  to  the 
ship  when  I  saw  something  I  never  forgot.  The 
memory  of  it  came  back  when  I  needed  it  most, 
came  again  and  again  until  it  became  a  part  of 
me.  It  was  a  carload  of  wounded  men  on  their 


44  THE  SWALLOW 

way  home  from  some  place  in  England  where  they 
had  been  fitted  with  artificial  arms  and  legs.  I 
have  never  felt  more  joy  in  my  vitality  than  those 
crippled  men  felt  in  their  pitiful  substitutes. 

As  I  saw  the  glow  in  those  spent  faces,  rever- 
ence for  what  they  had  endured  deepened  into 
awe  for  what  they  now  felt.  Maimed,  disabled, 
robbed  in  youth  of  youth's  fleetness — how  could 
they  still  be  so  happy?  Not  for  long  months 
was  I  to  know  the  secret  of  that  look.  Now  as  I 
took  off  my  hat  it  was  in  tribute  to  the  merriment 
I  could  not  understand. 

Still  bare-headed,  I  was  looking  after  those  joy- 
ous survivors — joking,  chattering — when  some  dis- 
tance behind  the  others  came  a  man  in  a  wheel- 
chair. I  stared  at  him  first.  He  was  young  and 
romantically  good-looking.  Long  suffering  had 
not  dimmed  those  sea-blue  eyes  nor  that  vigorous 
curve  of  profile.  Like  Phaethon  he  seemed  to  have 
plunged  straight  into  this  street — straight  to  an 
earth  he  would  never  tread  again.  The  handsome, 
untouched  face,  the  broken  body — just  then  it  was 
I  lifted  my  eyes  to  the  woman  wheeling  his  chair. 
At  this  moment  Sockeye,  who  had  been  standing 
beside  me,  lurched  forward  and  accidentally  jos- 
tled the  chair. 

"Beast!"    I  heard  the  girl  whisper  it  with  such 


THE  SWALLOW  45 

a  passion  of  scorn  that  even  Sockeye  jerked  off 
his  hat.  Unplacated  she  looked  after  him.  Then 
her  eyes,  moving  back,  chanced  to  meet  my  own. 
In  an  instant  the  fierce  resentment  for  her  charge 
changed  to  a  swift  curiosity,  so  fresh,  so  frank,  so 
impersonal  that  for  the  first  time  I  remembered 
how  I  looked.  I  gave  a  pull  to  .my  mere  dialect  of 
a  suit.  She  caught  me  doing  it  and  a  sudden 
merry  smile  that  had  in  it  no  whit  of  unkindness 
brought  an  answer  to  my  own  eyes. 

Long  after  she  was  gone  I  felt  the  something 
invigorating  in  that  quick,  interested  scrutiny. 
With  an  imbecile  smile  at  the  recollection  I  started 
off  in  my  sieve  of  a  cap  and  my  Salvation  Army 
suit.  That  brief  look  of  ours — it  had  been  youth 
asking  of  youth.  Then  as  I  walked  on  through  the 
Dublin  streets  I  recalled  what  that  glance  of  hers 
had  interrupted — the  fierce  protection  in  her  Irish 
eyes  for  the  soldier  in  her  charge.  I  stopped  short. 
For  the  first  time  I  did  not  take  for  granted  my 
youth  and  my  vigour  and  the  world's  answer  to 
these. 

"God!"  I  said.  "I'm  glad  I  don't  have  to  be 
just  pitied  by  a  girl  like  that !" 


CHAPTER  II 

AS  I  stepped  from  Paddington  Station  into 
London  I  came  to  a  full  stop  in  the  middle 
of  the  street.  A  curse  from  a  cabby  made  me  look 
up.  At  the  cabby's  bitter  scowl  I  smiled  unresent- 
fully.  It  was  the  first  hansom  I  had  ever  seen 
that  had  almost  run  over  me.  But  that  was  not 
what  had  pulled  me  up  so  short.  It  was  the  im- 
port of  the  words  I  had  caught  myself  humming : 

"When  I  am  dying 
Lean  over  me 

Softly,  tenderly  as  the  yellow  roses  droop  in 
in  the  wind  from  the  south    .  .  ." 

The  girl  back  in  Dublin  bending  over  the  soldier 
with  that  passion  of  maternity — she  had  recalled 
it.  It  was  one  of  Jasmine's  songs.  Sentimental 
even  for  my  condition,  it  used  to  make  me  writhe 
to  hear  it  in  public.  I  used  to  squirm  particularly 
over  the  last  line — "the  touch  of  your  lips  on  my 
mouth."  Now  with  a  shame-faced  laugh  at  my- 

46 


THE  SWALLOW  47 

self  for  humming  it,  I  began  my  search  for  lodg- 
ings. 

It  had  taken  me  a  week  to  get  from  Dublin  to 
London.  Marks  had  promised  to  pay  us  off  at 
Dublin.  But  at  Dublin  we  learned  that  we  must 
first  clean  the  ship  and  take  it  to  Berry  Docks. 
We  toiled  like  Turks  to  clean  that  filthy  ship; 
and  when  we  reached  Berry  Docks  the  shipmaster 
said  that  as  he  was  discharging  the  coolie  crew  we 
must  take  the  ship  home.  Then  we  would  be  paid 
off  in  New  Orleans. 

Take  the  ship  home1?  Never,  we  roared.  Then 
Williams  because  of  his  gold  teeth  and  I  because 
of  a  clean  collar  were  selected  to  protest  to  the  cap- 
tain. Neither  of  these  arguments  dazzled  that 
phlegmatic  gentleman. 

"You  signed  articles  to  bring  the  ship  back — 
what's  the  matter  with  you  fellows'?"  he  growled. 

To  our  astonishment  he  produced  the  articles. 
It  was  true.  Marks  had  skipped  one  clause  when 
he  read  the  document  aloud;  we  had  not  been 
given  time  to  read  it  for  ourselves. 

"All  right,  sir,"  said  I  to  the  captain,  who  had 
turned  an  insolent  back,  "I'll  not  sit  down  under 
this  dirty  deal.  I'll  expose  your  little  game." 

"Well,  I  guess  you  know  our  names,"  he  an- 


48  THE  SWALLOW 

swered  easily.  A  penniless  scarecrow  in  a  strange 
land  held  no  terrors  for  him. 

Tying  about  my  neck  my  logging  boots  and  my 
bag  of  good  clothes  which  I  had  managed  to  keep 
intact  under  my  berth,  I  jumped  overboard  and 
swam  ashore.  The  time  had  come  to  part  from 
my  boots.  Changing  into  my  best  suit,  I  hunted 
a  cobbler.  The  cobbler  was  less  susceptible  to  the 
charms  of  those  boots  than  the  mule-skinners  had 
been;  so  although  I  had  paid  twenty  dollars  for 
them  I  was  glad  to  sell  them  for  sixty  cents.  This 
was  the  price  of  a  round-trip  to  Cardiff,  where  the 
American  consul  lived. 

The  consul,  too,  was  indifferent ;  but  after  I  had 
threatened  to  report  him  at  home  for  refusal  to 
help  an  American  in  distress,  he  gave  me  a  letter 
to  the  skipper  demanding  my  discharge.  So  the 
skipper  had  to  pay  me  off — thirteen  dollars  and 
sixty-five  cents.  This  was  the  remnant  of  my 
wage.  Marks  had  deducted  Ritz-Carlton  prices 
for  board  that  couldn't  be  eaten,  mouldy  tobacco, 
and  soap  we  never  had  a  chance  to  use.  I  knew 
now  why  he  had  kept  us  on  the  dock:  the  board 
bill  we  were  rolling  up  for  that  dirty  soup-bone 
was  to  be  deducted  from  our  pay.  Then  he  sold 
rotten  overalls  and  paper-soled  shoes  to  all  the 
men  who  would  buy;  the  ninety  per  cent  profit  for 


THE  SWALLOW  49 

this  haberdashery  was  also  deducted  from  our 
pay.  And  next,  hired  by  the  British  government 
to  deliver  mules  in  Dublin,  he  saved  the  expense  of 
a  crew  on  the  return  voyage  by  misreading  the 
articles  and  refusing  pay  till  we  had  brought  the 
ship  home.  A  financial  genius  was  Marks ! 

Most  of  the  gang  had  no  ambition  beyond  a 
few  dollars  for  drinks ;  and  on  condition  that  they 
receive  half -pay  now  they  agreed  to  take  the  ship 
home.  I,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  was  too  eager 
to  get  away  to  bother  with  reporting  the  crooked 
game  to  the  British  government  as  I  should  have 
done.  So  I  left  the  men  crazy  with  whiskey,  beat- 
ing up  the  town — left  my  particular  pals  with  a 
regret  that  surprised  me.  After  all  they  were  my 
only  friends  within  a  thousand  miles.  And  I  had 
heard  nothing  from  home.  I  had  first  ordered  my 
mail  sent  to  Paris.  Then  deciding  to  enlist  in  the 
British  army  I  had  written  to  Paris  asking  the 
American  Express  there  to  send  my  mail  to  the 
London  office.  My  one  comfort  during  this  month 
of  sordid  hardship  had  been  hope  of  the  letters 
piling  up  for  me  in  England — letters  from  mother 
and  the  boys  and  one  letter  the  very  thought  of 
which  made  my  heart  beat  faster. 

Had  it  not  been  Sunday  then  when  I  reached 
London  I  should  have  gone  straight  to  the  Ameri- 


50  THE  SWALLOW 

can  Express.  But  one  more  night  must  pass.  And 
highhearted  with  the  hopes  of  to-morrow  and  the 
stir  of  the  first  great  city  I  had  ever  seen  I  entered 
a  tobacco  shop. 

I  had  now  just  ten  dollars.  I  could  not  con- 
sider a  hotel,  so  as  I  bought  a  postal  for  Jasmine 
I  asked  the  shopgirl  to  direct  me  to  lodgings.  With 
a  quick  flirt  of  her  lashes  she  looked  me  over.  I 
had  not  bathed  since  I  left  home  and  until  I 
reached  Paris  I  bore  a  faint  mulish  scent.  But  my 
best  suit  evidently  gave  me  a  veneer  of  respecta- 
bility, for  one  night  in  the  part  of  town  to  which 
she  sent  me  would  be  my  financial  ruin. 

"Hol-ee  cats,  this  is  no  place  for  Percy," 
thought  I,  dismayed  by  the  grandeur  of  the  hotels. 

I  started  off  in  an  opposite  direction  and  walked 
until  it  was  too  dark  to  see  the  houses.  Then, 
finding  a  bobby  with  a  goodnatured  face,  I  asked 
him  to  direct  me  to  a  cheap  hotel. 

"My  woman  can  put  you  up  for  the  night,"  he 
answered  tentatively. 

I  jumped  at  the  suggestion.  He  gave  me  his  ad- 
dress. But  as  I  lifted  the  knocker  on  his  door  I 
remembered  that  I  did  not  know  his  name. 

"Is  this  the  lady  of  the  house?"  I  asked  the 
woman  who  answered  the  knock. 

She  stared  at  me  silently.    She  was  a  big-jowled 


THE  SWALLOW  51 

woman  with  a  figure  that  doubled  in  at  the  waist. 

"Is  this  the  lady  of  the  house*?"  I  repeated. 

Her  mouth  dropped  open  but  she  only  con- 
tinued to  stare  with  bovine  eyes  from  under  heavy, 
hornlike  brows. 

"I  met  an  officer  who  directed  me  here  to  find 
a  room,"  I  explained,  disconcerted  by  her  silence. 
"He  didn't  tell  me  his  name." 

"Oh!  Eh!  That's  it,  is  it?  You  can  have 
the  room  then." 

She  took  me  up  to  a  tiny  stall  of  a  room.  As 
she  lit  the  gas  she  added  impressively: 

"But  I  ign't  no  lydy.    I'm  Mrs.  White." 

When  the  bobby  returned  that  night  I  heard  her 
telling  him  about  my  strange  question.  In  fact 
during  my  whole  stay  she  never  recovered  from  my 
unconscious  flattery.  The  joke  became  a  family 
institution. 

"And  I  says  to  him,"  I  would  hear  Mrs.  White 
repeating,  "I  says,  'But  I  ign't  Lydy  White.  Me 
husband's  not  come  into  the  title  yet' ' 

Next  morning  after  swallowing  a  bun  and  glass 
of  milk  in  a  neighbouring  tea-room  I  walked  to 
the  American  Express.  As  I  demanded  my  mail 
my  breath  quickened.  I  was  wondering  how  Jas- 
mine would  begin  her  letter. 

"If  you  don't  hurry,"  I  said  behind  my  teeth 


52  THE  SWALLOW 

to  the  clerk  who  sifted  the  letters  with  monstrous 
calm,  "I'll  choke  to  death  before  your  eyes." 

"No,  sir,  nothing  here,"  he  said,  wheeling  about 
as  if  in  answer  to  my  threat. 

"You  haven't  the  name  right  then — Byrd,"  I 
said  sharply.  "Look  again,  please." 

Turning  wearily  on  his  heel  he  went  again 
through  the  pigeon-hole. 

"No,  sir,  no  mail  for  Byrd." 

I  stared  at  the  sleek-haired,  sleek-eyed  young 
man  whose  level  gaze  met  mine  uncaringly.  Then 
I  walked  out.  There  was  an  ache  in  my  throat. 

After  one  stunned  moment  I  felt  I  must  do 
something  violent.  I  started  to  run.  I  stopped 
in  the  arms  of  an  officer. 

"After  all,"  I  said  to  him,  "this  is  wartime. 
Mails  are  slow.  The  letter  will  be  here  soon." 

The  bobby  gave  me  one  disgusted  look.  I 
backed  off  from  that  impregnable  blue  front. 

"You  must  be  in  a  bad  way,  young  sir.  Be  off 
about  your  business,"  said  he. 

"You'd  be  in  a  bad  way  too,"  thought  I,  "if  the 
dearest  little  girl  in  the  world  hadn't  written  you 
for  a  month." 

But  taking  his  advice  I  walked  briskly  off  to  the 
American  consulate. 

"What  do  you  want*?"  inquired  a  young  squirt 


THE  SWALLOW  53 

behind  the  desk  to  one  of  my  countrymen  ahead 
of  me. 

"I'm  broke.    I  want  to  get  home." 

"Better  stay  here  and  help  out  if  you're  broke. 
Plenty  of  work  here.  What  do  you  want*?" 

Having  thus  helpfully  disposed  of  the  man  in 
front  he  was  addressing  himself  to  me. 

"I  want  to  get  into  the  war.  What  steps  shall 
I  take?" 

"Take  the  next  ship  home.  What  are  you  do- 
ing here?" 

He  leaned  over  to  the  man  behind  me  but  I 
planted  myself  squarely  under  his  nose. 

"You  have  a  discontented  disposition,"  I  said. 
"Apparently  no  one  can  suit  you.  Now  I'll  not 
take  any  ship  home  until  I  have  got  into  this  war." 

I  flung  myself  out  and  down  to  the  town  hall  in 
Chelsea. 

"I  want  to  enlist,"  I  announced  there. 

As  when  leaving  America,  I  gave  my  age  as 
twenty-one.  That  was  satisfactory.  I  gave  my 
qualifications.  They  were  satisfactory.  Then  I 
gave  my  birthplace. 

"Oh!     American!     We  can't  use  you!" 

How  many  times  I  heard  those  words,  always 
with  the  same  scornful  emphasis!  From  one  re- 
cruiting office  to  another  I  went.  Every  few 


54  THE  SWALLOW 

squares  I  was  stopped  by  recruiting  officers.  Ev- 
erywhere I  saw  signs,  "Enlist  Now!  Help  the 
Boys  Over  There !"  Yet  the  feeling  against  Amer- 
ica was  so  bitter  that,  needing  men  as  she  did, 
England  would  not  use  me. 

"What  have  you  got  against  America  anyway?" 
I  asked  one  recruiter  who  like  the  rest  had  lost  in- 
terest at  the  mention  of  my  nationality. 

"When  Belgium  was  violated  we  came  to  the 
rescue  for  honour's  sake,"  he  said  melodramatical- 
ly. "Why  didn't  you?" 

"I  came  in,  I  came  in,  I   came  in, 
1  came  in  to  save  my  skin" 

I  sang  It  into  his  face.  "When  our  skins  are 
in  danger,"  I  added,  "we'll  come  in,  too." 

"Well,"  he  called  after  me,  "if  you  want  to 
fight  so  much  why  don't  you  forget  that  you're  an 
American1?  Then  the  King  will  too." 

"To  hell  with  the  King  and  England,"  I  re- 
torted, "I'll  never  forget  that  I'm  an  American." 

It  was  now  evident  that  I  should  never  get  into 
the  British  army.  By  this  time  my  money  was 
almost  gone.  My  only  chance  was  to  earn  the 
price  of  a  ticket  to  Paris  and  there  pick  up  some 
kind  of  work  till  I  could  speak  enough  French  to 
enlist  in  the  French  army. 


THE  SWALLOW  55 

I  had  supposed  that  with  the  labour  shortage  in 
England  it  would  be  easy  to  find  work.  Yet  I 
tried  every  conceivable  line.  I  applied  for  jobs 
as  mechanic,  chauffeur,  baker.  With  a  working 
knowledge  of  Spanish  I  tried  to  find  a  place  as  in- 
terpreter. I  would  have  swept  crossings  or  sold 
ribbons.  But  in  commerce  as  in  the  army  my  na- 
tionality closed  all  doors  to  me. 

Nevertheless  I  never  appreciated  America  as  I 
did  then.  For  at  home  any  man,  any  where,  can 
get  some  kind  of  work.  But  in  England,  young, 
strong,  energetic  as  I  was,  I  was  actually  facing 
starvation.  It  was  unbelievable.  It  was  gro- 
tesque. It  was  ghastly. 

I  reduced  my  eating  expense  to  two  cents  a  day. 
This  sum  would  buy  a  cup  of  strong  tea  and  a  bun 
which  I  took  at  ten  in  the  morning.  Sometimes 
the  waitress  would  slip  me  a  second  cup  of  tea. 

As  for  my  clothes,  the  feet  of  my  socks  were 
completely  gone  and  I  tied  what  was  left  around 
my  ankles  so  carefully  that  I  seemed  to  be  hosed. 
The  soles  of  my  shoes,  too,  were  gone  and  to  keep 
my  bare  feet  off  the  ground  I  fitted  cardboard  in- 
side the  uppers.  In  a  large  stock  of  clean  col- 
lars lay  my  salvation.  A  fresh  collar  each  morn- 
ing with  a  fairly  well-tailored  suit  gave  me  that 
valuable  aid  to  success,  a  look  of  prosperity. 


56  THE  SWALLOW 

Every  day  and  all  day  I  tramped  that  grey, 
gaunt  city.  But  no  matter  how  far  I  walked,  how 
aching  my  feet,  I  went  each  afternoon  to  the  Amer- 
ican Express  for  the  mail  that  did  not  come.  I 
was  uneasy,  harassed,  stung.  Even  in  wartime 
I  should  have  heard  from  home  by  now. 

On  the  fifth  day  of  my  tea  and  cake  regime  I 
discarded  my  birthplace  and  adopted  the  English 
tongue.  With  what  was  meant  to  be  a  broad 
Yorkshire  accent  I  applied  at  Harrid?s,  Ltd., 
which,  patterned  after  the  American  department 
store,  was  one  of  the  largest  stores  in  England.  I 
had  just  come  up  from  the  country,  I  said,  where 
I  had  managed  my  father's  shop.  Mr.  White  I 
gave  for  reference.  That  thrifty  soul,  his  kind- 
ness, no  doubt,  given  more  elasticity  by  the  fact 
"that  my  rent  was  due,  agreed  to  lie  for  me.  On 
the  strength  of  this  fiction,  the  very  Saturday  I 
had  reached  my  last  cent,  I  landed  a  job  as  time- 
keeper. And  on  the  strength  of  this  job  Mrs. 
White,  trusting  me  till  payday  for  my  room,  in- 
vited me  to  celebrate  at  Sunday  breakfast  in  a 
pork  pie. 

I  longed  to  say,  "Make  it  to-night."  Instead,  to 
keep  down  the  pangs  of  hunger,  I  went  to  bed.  As 
I  lay  there  from  Saturday  noon  till  Sunday  morn- 
ing I  dreamed  of  one  thing.  Like  a  small-town 


THE  SWALLOW  57 

youth  who  lets  his  imagination  play  about  some 
girl  coming  for  a  summer  visit,  and  who  falls  in 
love  with  the  image  he  has  created,  my  imagina- 
tion played  about  that  pork  pie.  I  dwelt  upon  its 
size,  its  complexion,  its  inner  nature.  I  hoped  it 
would  be  large  enough.  I  wondered  how  many 
helpings  I  might  decently  have. 

It  was  large.  It  was  thick.  It  was  rich  and 
indigestible,  but  Mrs.  White  apologised  for  its 
simplicity. 

"Plain  Yorkshire  fare,  sir,"  she  said,  while  my 
famished  eye  followed  her  knife  skirting  the  crust 
for  an  opportune  opening.  At  last  the  knife 
plunged.  A  spoon  followed  to  catch  the  juice.  In 
a  second  my  plate  was  heaped  with  meat  and  thick 
brown  pastry.  Beside  it  stood  a  huge  cup  of 
steaming  coffee. 

Three  times  I  cleaned  my  plate  and  drained  my 
cup.  Three  times  they  were  filled  again;  the  sup- 
ply seemed  inexhaustible.  Each  time  I  feared  to 
risk  a  protest.  Even  Mrs.  White's  pleasure  in 
my  appreciation  of  her  cookery  might  fail  before 
my  appetite  did.  But  if  the  supply  proved  end- 
less the  demand  did  not.  The  time  came  when  I 
could  eat  no  more.  Then  the  bobby,  his  weathered 
neck  rolling  over  his  Sunday  collar,  proffered  me  a 
long  black  cigar.  With  our  feet  on  the  fender  of 


58  THE  SWALLOW 

the  open  fire  we  sat  silently  smoking  and  recalling 
the  charms  of  pork  pie. 

"That's  the  first  real  meal  I've  had  since  I  left 
home,"  I  said  to  Mrs.  White  when  I  finally  rose 
to  go.  "I'm  sure  I  never  enjoyed  one  so  much." 

Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

"I  only  wish,"  she  said,  "that  some  French  lady 
would  feed  pork  pie  to  my  own  poor  lad  in  the 
trenches.  He  relished  it  from  his  cradle,  sir, 
and  it  reminded  me  of  him  to  see  you  eat." 

Next  morning  I  went  to  work.  My  pay  from 
Harrid's  was  twenty-five  shillings  a  week  "all 
found."  This  meant  with  free  meals.  Fortu- 
nately for  me  the  company  considered  it  good 
business  to  keep  a  restaurant  for  their  employes. 
Otherwise  I  should  have  had  to  starve  till  my  first 
pay  day. 

These  meals  at  the  store  were  solid  and  whole- 
some. Breakfast  consisted  of  two  soft  boiled 
eggs,  kippered  herring  or  codfish,  plenty  of  coffee 
with  bread  and  butter  and  marmalade.  At  noon 
we  dined  off  joints  and  potatoes  with  spotted  dog 
pudding  or  custard.  At  four  we  had  tea — big 
dishes  of  it  with  enormous  slices  of  bread  and  but- 
ter and,  twice  a  week,  jam.  Tea  at  this  hour  made 
it  possible  for  me  to  go  without  supper. 

My  duties  as  time-keeper  were  easily  managed. 


THE  SWALLOW  59 

Most  of  the  men  who  did  clerical  work  were  elder- 
ly and  settled,  with  little  initiative,  so  that  I  found 
plenty  of  chance  to  help  them.  To  do  this  I 
worked  overtime,. on  Sundays  and  bank  holidays, 
for  which  I  received  double  pay. 

Each  pay  day  I  turned  over  my  whole  wage  to 
Mrs.  White.  Taking  five  shillings  a  week  for 
room  and  laundry  and  giving  me  four  shillings  for 
spending  money,  she  banked  the  rest  for  me. 

As  soon  as  my  work  had  settled  into  routine  I 
took  part  of  my  noon  hour  for  making  the  rounds 
of  the  war  offices.  It  was  at  the  Red  Cross  that  I 
learned  there  was  such  a  thing  in  Paris  as  the 
Appleton  Ambulance.  An  American  Ambulance ! 
With  my  experience  as  a  driver  of  course  they 
could  use  me !  My  hope  soared. 

From  the  Red  Cross  then  I  sought  the  London 
manager  of  the  Ford  company  to  learn  the  address 
of  the  Paris  branch.  After  several  attempts  I  was 
at  last  admitted  to  his  office.  A  big  fellow  with 
legs  like  the  pillars  of  the  First  Presbyterian 
Church  back  home,  he  sat  dictating  to  his  stenog- 
rapher. 

"What's  your  trouble*?"  he  asked  as  uninvited 
I  took  a  seat.  He  did  not  look  at  me.  His  effi- 
cient grey  eye,  hungry  for  more  work,  roamed  the 
desk. 


6o  THE  SWALLOW 

"I'm  going  to  war,"  I  said.  "They  won't  have 
me  here  so  I  want  to  get  a  job  in  Paris  till  I  can 
learn  enough  French  to  get  into  their  army.  I 
know  Fords  and  I  thought  you  might  be  so  kind 
as  to  put  me  in  touch  through  your  Paris  branch 
with  the  Appleton  Ambulance." 

"Sorry,  young  man,  but  I'm  sure  our  Paris  peo- 
ple can  dispense  with  your  services.  Take  my  ad- 
vice and  go  home.  Now,  Miss  Witwer " 

"I  beg  your  pardon."  I  rose.  "Do  you  happen 
to  know  what  mules  are  famous  for1?" 

From  the  letter  in  his  hand  he  looked  up. 

"I  do,"  he  said  with  emphasis. 

"Exactly,"  I  answered  with  equal  emphasis. 
"And  I  didn't  valet  six  hundred  and  thirty  mules 
without  catching  it.  I  went  through  hell  to  get 
into  this  war  and  I'll  get  into  it  if  I  have  to  fight 
hell  fires  all  the  way  to  Paris.  Good-day." 

My  hand  was  on  the  knob  before  he  spoke. 
Then  it  was  in  a  leisurely  voice. 

"Wait  a  moment." 

I  turned.    His  eye  was  still  roaming  the  desk. 

"WTiat  do  you  mean — valet  six  hundred  and 
thirty  mules?" 

I  told  him. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said  crisply.  He  glanced  over 
a  letter.  "The  usual  answer  to  this,  Miss  Witwer, 


THE  SWALLOW  61 

and  you  may  go.  Now  let's  hear  about  the 
mules." 

Swinging  his  huge  legs  around  from  the  desk 
he  gave  a  whole-minded  attention  to  my  story. 
How  surely  he  followed  it  I  knew  from  the  keen 
questions  that  were  the  only  break  to  my  narra- 
tive. To  my  amazement  I  sat  in  this  busy  man's 
office  in  London  telling  him  about  Sockeye  and 
Puggy,  Pete  and  Sally,  Marks'  Yard  and  the  bak- 
ery at  home. 

"You'll  do,  sonny,"  he  said  at  last.  "I'll  give 
you  a  letter  to  a  good  friend  of  mine  in  Paris. 
He'll  put  you  where  you  want  to  go.  And  if  I 
can  do  anything  more  for  you  let  me  know." 

In  highest  spirits  I  almost  ran  back  to  work.  I 
now  had  enough  money  to  take  me  to  Paris.  In  a 
few  more  days  I  should  be  in  France ! 

My  only  problem  was  how  to  quit  my  job  with- 
out playing  a  nasty  trick  on  a  company  that  ex- 
pected its  employes  to  grow  grey  in  service.  Puz- 
zling about  it  as  I  came  down  from  tea  that  after- 
noon I  heard  a  superintendent  call  to  me,  "Get 
your  hands  out  of  your  pockets,  you,  and  move 
along!" 

I  realised  then  that  I  had  been  indulging  in 
that  ill-bred  habit  which,  like  spitting,  is  indige- 


62  THE  SWALLOW 

neous  to  America.  But  I  realised,  too,  that  here 
was  my  chance.  I  stuck  my  hands  in  deeper. 

The  superintendents,  who  swaggered  about  in 
frock  coats,  striped  trousers  and  top  hats,  were 
treated  by  the  men  under  them  like  Prussian  roy- 
alty. This  particular  one  was  a  ratty  little  man 
with  a  squeaky  voice.  Rushing  at  me  now  he 
caught  me  by  the  arm. 

"Do  you  hear  me*?"  he  shrilled. 

"Oh,  speak  up  if  you  want  to  be  heard,"  I  an- 
swered, shaking  him  off.  "Don't  make  a  noise 
like  a  flea-bite." 

He  turned  red,  then  purple.  Never,  it  is  safe 
to  say,  in  his  experience  with  those  browbeaten 
British  underlings,  had  he  ever  been  insulted  by 
an  inferior.  He  tried  several  times  to  speak  but 
spluttered  and  choked  like  a  drowning  man. 

"Don't  you  fret,"  I  went  on  insolently,  "I'm 
going  to  clear  out  before  you  can  sack  me." 

As  soon  as  I  could  close  up  my  work  I  hurried  to 
the  office  of  the  staff  superintendent.  My  sacking 
papers  were  before  me. 

"We're  very  sorry  to  lose  you,"  said  he,  "but 
you  must  learn  to  be  respectful." 

"I  didn't  ask  to  stay,"  I  answered.  "I  only 
want  what's  coming  to  me." 

I  was  paid  off  immediately  but  hung  around  the 


THE  SWALLOW  63 

door  till  my  little  superintendent  emerged  onto  the 
street.  His  face  was  still  streaked  with  red,  as  if 
I  had  struck  him.  He  was  telling  some  one  about 
my  astounding  impudence.  I  stepped  in  front  of 
him. 

"Next  time  you  have  anything  to  say  to  art 
American,"  I  suggested,  "talk  to  him  as  if  he  were 

*  fCJ  * 

a  man  or  he  may  break  your  head." 

A  look  of  terror  came  into  his  face.  I  believe 
he  thought  I  had  lost  my  mind;  not  otherwise 
could  he  account  for  insubordination.  I  left  him 
chattering  as  if  he  had  a  chill. 

I  was  now  free  to  go  to  France.  At  last,  at 
last  I  was  on  the  eve  of  Adventure ! 

With  a  sense  of  triumph  I  went  next  day  to  the 
American  consulate. 

"You  still  here4?"  demanded  the  important  clerk 
who  had  advised  me  to  go  home.  His  tone  showed 
surprise  that  I  should  have  stayed  in  England 
against  his  will. 

"Yes,  I'm  taking  the  next  ship,  as  you  sug- 
gested," I  answered. 

He  looked  gratified. 

"Only  it's  bound  for  France,"  I  added. 

His  face  fell.  Reluctantly  he  stamped  my  pa- 
pers. 

Now  came  two  wearisome  days  at  the  French 


64  THE  SWALLOW 

consulate.  From  six  in  the  morning  till  five  at 
night  I  stood  in  line.  But  in  the  end  I  got  my 
passport.  By  the  time  I  had  paid  for  it  and  for 
a  third-class  ticket  to  Paris  I  had  only  a  few  dol- 
lars left.  But  what  did  I  care?  Before  the  week 
was  out  I  should  be  driving  an  ambulance  to  the 
front.  Before  the  month  was  out  I  should  be 
soaring  above  the  clouds  in  my  aeroplane.  Yet, 
despite  these  high  prospects,  I  said  good-bye  re- 
gretfully to  the  London  bobby  and  his  wife ;  they 
had  proved  to  be  the  realest  friends.  I  promised 
if  I  chanced  to  meet  their  son  at  the  front  to  repay 
them.  Then,  bag  in  hand,  I  started  by  way  of  the 
American  Express  to  the  station. 
;  The  metropolitan  calm  of  the  mail  clerk  at  the 
American  Express  had  finally  broken  under  my 
anxiety.  Each  day  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of 
me  he  would  shake  his  smooth  head  with  a  smile 
almost  friendly.  He  had  even  a  few  days  before 
written  a  personal  letter  for  me  to  the  Paris 
branch. 

"I'm  sure  your  mail's  been  held  up  there  in  some 
way,"  he  said  when  I  told  him  I  had  set  the  day 
for  my  departure,  "and  'twill  get  here  about  two 
days  before  you  leave." 

Fretted  by  the  probability  that  the  letters  had 
already  come,  those  two  days  at  the  consulate  had 


THE  SWALLOW  65 

seemed  endless.  Now  as  I  raced  to  the  Express 
office  all  kinds  of  questions  scampered  through  my 
mind.  How  was  the  business  getting  on  without 
me1?  Would  Jack  write  on  coloured  paper"?  How 
would  she  begin  and  end  ?  Should  I  take  time  for 
a  glimpse  or  should  I  wait  to  read  luxuriously  on 
the  train*? 

"Produce  'em  at  once,"  I  addressed  the  clerk 
whose  back  was  towards  me.  "All  prosecution 
will  be  dropped  and  no  questions  asked." 

"Well,  old  man,  they  didn't  come." 

"Don't  kid  me,  now "  I  made  a  sick  at- 
tempt to  disbelieve  him.  "I'm  in  a  rush.  Cough 
up." 

His  look  of  sympathy  quenched  the  flicker  of 
hope. 

"You're  sure  to  find  a  batch  in  Paris,"  he  said. 
"But  if  it  crosses  you  on  the  way  over,  I'll  send  it 
right  back.  Good  luck." 

I  wrung  his  hand  and  stumbled  out.  With  one 
last  look  at  the  great  awkward  city  sprawling  over 
rain-soaked  squares,  I  boarded  the  train  for  Dover. 

I  had  waited  too  long,  I  had  believed  too  often. 
I  knew  now  that  there  would  be  no  letters  for  me 
in  Paris.  Every  one  had  deserted  me — even  my 
mother.  As  for  Jasmine,  she  would  not  even 
trouble  to  tell  me  how  completely  I  had  dropped 


66  THE  SWALLOW 

out  of  her  life.  I  tried  to  fix  my  mind  on  the  green 
folds  of  Sussex  countryside  silvered  by  the  light 
English  rain,  the  little  spired  villages  that  even  in 
early  spring  possessed  an  air  of  leafy  comfort; 
but  my  mind  returned  incessantly  to  its  own  bitter 
reflection. 

Yet  even  through  my  disappointment  Dover 
gave  me  a  sudden  glow.  How  often  I  had  pic- 
tured it  when  as  a  boy  I  read  Dickens's  History  of 
England!  The  adventurous,  thick-nosed  little 
ships  with  their  sails  puffing  out  in  the  wind  that 
was  to  drive  the  warriors  of  Edward  III  to  Calais 
— Calais  that  to  the  Englishmen  of  other  times 
had  always  meant  dazzling  uncertainty;  the  tu- 
niced  archers  who  with  bows  cut  from  stout  Eng- 
glish  forest  had  pierced  the  armour  of  French 
knighthood  at  Poitiers — these  merged  in  my  mind 
with  the  modern  little  channel  boat  on  which  I 
now  stepped. 

There  were  English  officers,  English  nurses — 
hardly  any  one  else,  in  fact.  And  as  I  stood  on 
deck  looking  back  at  the  white  cliffs  which  had 
once  been  a  background  for  the  adventurous, 
thick-nosed  little  boats  loaded  with  archers  and 
plumed  knights,  I  heard  an  English  voice  drawling 
beside  me,  "There's  nothing  to  it — I  just  jolly 
well  climbed  down  into  a  funk-hole — that's  all  I 


THE  SWALLOW  67 

was  decorated  for."  It  was  a  young  English  cap- 
tain talking  to  a  fellow  officer.  And  as  I  heard  the 
joking  sureness  of  that  voice,  I  realised  that  in  a 
different  slang  but  with  the  same  spirit  which  must 
always  make  light  of  the  duty  it  feels  so  keenly, 
the  old  archers  had  gone  about  their  business. 

Calais!  What  if  I  didn't  know  anything  I  had 
left  behind*?  I  was  going  to  Calais!  The  French 
sea-town  graven  so  deeply  on  the  hearts  of  genera- 
tions of  Englishmen  was  once  more  insecure,  this 
time  from  a  different  source.  And  I,  the  descend- 
ant of  those  old  islanders  who  had  crossed  the 
channel,  was  crossing  now  to  take  my  part,  for 
England  and  for  France. 

\Yhen  I  stepped  that  night  into  the  Gare  du 
Nord  exultation  forsook  me.  The  crowded  sta- 
tion seemed  like  a  prairie  alive  with  grasshoppers. 
And  as,  with  a  forlorn  hope  of  friendliness,  I 
looked  into  each  animated  face,  I  could  see  noth- 
ing but  the  anxious  vivacity  of  an  insect  bent  upon 
filling  its  larder.  So  these  were  the  French  to 
whom  I  was  offering  my  life!  And  this  was 
France !  For  three  months  I  had  endured  and  de- 
nied that  I  might  be  here.  And  now  that  my  feet 
were  on  French  soil  my  heart — despised  but  still 
adoring — was  under  the  magnolias. 

In  bitter  mood  next  morning  I  went  down  to 


68  THE  SWALLOW 

breakfast  at  the  cheap  hotel  near  the  station  where 
I  had  spent  the  night.  A  bare-legged  bandit 
mopping  the  floor  paused  long  enough  to  bring  me 
a  tray,  then  returned  to  his  bucket  of  dirty  water. 
At  the  first  taste  of  cold  rolls  and  cafe  au  lait  my 
American  blood  revolted. 

"Slop  under  foot  and  slop  under  my  belt,"  I 
commented  aloud. 

"Out,  monsieur"  said  the  waiter. 

He  was  a  reckless-looking  bandit  and  had  he 
understood  would  doubtless  have  substituted  me 
for  the  mop-rag.  As  he  did  not,  it  gave  me  a  petty 
pleasure  to  murmur  insults  in  the  tone  of  polite 
nothings. 

"Another  bandit,"  I  cooed  to  the  maitre  d'hotel 
when  I  went  to  pay  my  bill  at  the  office.  "Filth 
and  son  of  filth,  why  aren't  you  in  the  trenches 
instead  of  robbing  innocent  travellers  of  their  last 
buck?" 

"Om  monsieur"  he  replied  with  a  flash  of  teeth 
through  his  long  black  moustaches. 

By  the  aid  of  a  phrase-book  I  made  him  under- 
stand'that  I  wanted  to  check  my  bag  with  him. 
Then,  having  found  me  fluently  inclined,  he  asked 
when  I  had  arrived  in  Paris.  Feeling  by  now 
quite  independent  of  the  phrase-book  I  answered 
in  my  best  French  that  I  had  come  demain.  He 


THE  SWALLOW  69 

assured  me,  restrainedly  at  first,  then  wildly,  that 
I  was  mistaken.  I  was  firm.  He  gave  me  the  lie. 
When  the  argument  was  growing  heated  I  pulled 
out  the  phrase-book. 

"Don't  get  excited,  my  friend,"  I  reasoned  with 
him  as  I  went  through  the  index,  "or  those  little 
black  beads  you  see  through  will  fall  off.  They're 
loose  now." 

Then  I  looked  up,  crestfallen.  Hier  was  the 
word  for  yesterday.  I  had  been  insisting  that  I 
came  to-morrow.  Upon  my  apologies  he  over- 
looked this  extravagant  claim  and  I  set  out  into 
Paris. 

It  was  an  unkempt  Paris  that  I  saw,  with  nar- 
row, reeking  streets  and  ill-favoured  houses  and 
disordered  traffic.  Each  driver  pursued  any  course 
he  chose ;  straight  as  a  homing  bird  his  instinct  led 
him  to  some  spot  populous  with  drivers  of  iden- 
tical taste.  This  harmony  of  purpose  resulted  in- 
variably in  a  row. 

"Pretty — bum — burg.  El  Paso,  Texas,  could 
knock  the  spots  off  its  socks,"  I  said.  Then  re- 
membering my  treatment  at  the  hand  of  my  native 
town,  "But  El  Paso  will  never  see  me  again.  Not 
after  the  way  my  own  mother  has  thrown  me 
down." 

With  one  more  chance,  however,  I  softened  the 


70  THE  SWALLOW 

sentence  for  El  Paso.  I  had  two  cards,  one  with 
the  address  of  the  American  Express,  the  other 
with  the  address  of  the  Ford  Motor  Company.  In 
a  cafe  with  the  sign  "English  Spoken"  I  held  up 
the  first  card.  The  girl  at  the  cash  desk  pointed 
to  a  surface  car.  On  the  surface  car,  with  a  hand- 
ful of  change,  I  again  held  up  the  card.  Taking 
out  the  proper  fare  the  conductor  let  me  off  at  the 
American  Express. 

"Byrd  <?" 

I  had  sworn  not  to  hope  again.  Yet  my  heart 
was  following  that  bony  hand. 

"No  mail  for  Byrd." 

"You  didn't  forward  it  to  London,  did  you*?" 
My  voice  as  I  asked  sounded  hollow. 

"No  mail  for  Byrd,"  repeated  the  clerk  impa- 
tiently. 

"Thanks."  My  throat  had  gone  dry.  "If  it 
comes,  hold  it." 

"Wait!"  At  the  mention  of  London  a  second 
clerk  came  up  with  a  package.  "Here's  a  special 
post  from  England  for  Byrd." 

Whether  the  mistake  was  due  to  my  sloppy 
handwriting  or  to  the  insecurity  of  wartime  mails, 
I  never  knew.  But  the  Paris  office  had  never  re- 
ceived my  forwarding  address.  The  letter  from 
the  London  clerk  was  their  first  intimation  of  it. 


THE  SWALLOW  71 

And  he  had  not  failed  me!  The  package  must 
have  reached  London  a  few  hours  after  my  leav- 
ing. 

Tearing  open  the  bundle,  I  made  sure  of  my 
mother's  angular  writing  and  another  wayward 
hand.  Then  trying  not  to  shout,  I  thrust  the  whole 
packet  of  letters  and  papers  into  my  pockets  and 
burst  out  the  door. 

What  a  different  Paris  from  the  one  of  five 
minutes  ago — a  Paris  quivering  with  enchant- 
ment. I  laughed  with  delight  at  the  goats,  which, 
herded  along  the  pavement  for  their  morning  milk- 
ing, looked  about  with  wise,  wicked  faces.  Every 
time  a  horny-cheeked  driver  bumped  another  hor- 
ny-cheeked driver,  I  was  charmed ;  when  they  stood 
up  and  shook  their  fists,  each  supported  loyally  by 
his  inflammable  freight,  I  felt  that  they  were  stag- 
ing a  French  comedy  for  my  special  enjoyment. 

I  walked  till  I  came  to  a  little  park.  I  opened 
a  small  white  envelope,  one  of  many  like  it. 
"Dearest  Dicky,"  began  the  letter.  I  could  read 
between  lines  all  the  sweetness  she  had  shyly  left 
unspoken.  My  heart  was  full.  .  .  . 

I  heard  the  wavy  song  of  a  bird;  the  notes 
dipped  and  soared  with  winged  flutterings.  Trees 
were  weaving  over  their  bare  arms  a  pale  green 
lace.  A  robust  young  pine  bowed  to  a  maple 


72  THE  SWALLOW 

which  shook  its  golden  curls  in  the  breeze.  .  .  . 

Spring  had  come  crashing  down  to  earth.  So 
it  had  come  to  me. 

At  the  Ford  Motor  Company  I  found  English- 
speaking  people  who  took  me  at  once  to  the  Apple- 
ton  Ambulance.  There  I  put  in  my  request  to  be 
sent  to  the  front  as  a  driver.  During  the  three 
days  required  by  the  committee  for  passing  upon 
my  application  I  was  to  stay  there  at  the  hospital. 

On  the  third  day  I  was  prepared  to  start.  I 
was  not  prepared  for  the  verdict. 

"If  you  had  come  to  us  from  New  York  that 
would  have  been  different,"  said  the  committee- 
man.  "But  coming  from  England  how  do  we 
know  that  you  are  an  American4?" 

"You're  right,"  I  said  after  a  stunned  moment 
in  which  I  could  feel  my  face  tighten  with  chagrin 
and  disappointment,  "with  such  limited  intelli- 
gence as  you  people  seem  to  possess  I  might  be  a 
Fiji  queen  for  all  you  could  tell.  The  Appleton 
Ambulance  can  go  chase  itself." 

Fool,  fool!  I  had  written  home  that  I  was 
soon  to  be  at  the  front.  Now  my  one  avenue  was 
closed.  Lee  Malone  would  laugh  at  me,  Jasmine 
would  despise  me.  ...  I  clenched  my  teeth.  .  .  . 
I  was  not  done  for  yet.  For  three  months  I  had 


THE  SWALLOW  73 

drudged,  half-starving,  to  find  some  way  of  fight- 
ing for  countries  that  were  spending  thousands  of 
dollars  recruiting  men !  Once  more  then  I  would 
take  up  this  ironical  task. 

First  I  tried  another  ambulance  corps;  my  re- 
jection by  the  Appleton  unit  was  against  me. 
Next  I  filed  an  application  with  the  French  Avia- 
tion Corps  and  another  for  trench  duty  with  the 
Foreign  Legion.  I  followed  every » cue,  possible 
or  impossible. 

While  I  waited  for  results  I  found  a  little  cafe 
where  cabmen  ate.  Here  I  took  one  meal  a  day. 
For  twenty  cents  I  could  get  bread  with  spinach 
or  string  beans  or  soup.  I  used  to  look  longingly 
at  the  red  wine;  I  was  not  a  wealthy  cabman. 
Once  or  twice  as  a  great  luxury  I  treated  myself  to 
roast  beef.  Another  time  I  attempted  to  order 
the  good  old  American  "ham  an'."  On  the  back 
of  the  menu  I  drew  an  egg,  then  a  strip  of  bacon. 
The  waitress  was  impressed  by  this  display  of 
draughtsmanship,  but  seemed  to  think  I  was  ex- 
erting myself  to  amuse  her.  I  drew  another  egg 
and  cackled.  Then  I  drew  another  strip  of  bacon 
and  grunted.  After  a  couple  of  cackles  and  grunts 
I  was  rewarded  by  the  coveted  dish. 

As  my  money  dwindled  I  reduced  my  daily 
meal  to  a  big  bowl  of  cafe  au  lait  which  I  could 


74  THE  SWALLOW 

get  with  bread  and  butter  for  ten  cents.  Follow- 
ing my  London  plan  I  ate  in  the  middle  of  the 
morning  and  went  early  to  bed. 

During  this  time  I  never  lost  a  chance  to  pick 
up  a  word.  My  phrase-book,  which  contained 
such  timely  information  as  "Engines  are  made  of 
iron,"  and  "Do  you  like  to  be  seasick1?"  was  not 
of  great  service  to  a  hungry  man.  I  had  to  rely  for 
sustenance  upon  such  words  as  I  could  impale 
from  the  lips  of  waitresses  and  taxi-drivers.  Once 
when  I  had  pointed  to  a  man's  dish  of  soup  the 
waitress  called  out,  "Chaud  pour  un!"  Pleased 
that  I  was  mastering  even  French  slang  I  went 
next  day  to  another  restaurant.  "Chaud  pour 
un!"  I  ordered.  When  the  "warm  for  one"  came 
it  was  not  soup  but  coffee.  This  was  sobering.  If 
every  cafe  in  Paris  cited  the  language  for  its  own 
purpose  it  would  be  long  before  I  could  use  the 
vernacular. 

However  implacably  I  pursued  that  nimble 
tongue,  I  could  not  speak  well  enough  to  find 
work.  Neither  did  I  hear  from  any  of  my  appli- 
cations. I  was  growing  so  hungry  that  I  spent 
hours  in  front  of  a  certain  bakery  window  feasting 
my  imagination  on  the  graceful  outlines  of  bread 
and  pastry. 

So  sure  I  had  been  of  a  driver's  seat  that  I  had 


THE  SWALLOW  75 

directed  my  mail  to  the  Appleton  Ambulance. 
And  when  time  enough  had  passed  for  me  to  hear 
from  home  I  went  out  to  claim  my  letters. 

Here  was  consolation!  Starving  I  might  be 
but  the  top  letter  of  the  pile  handed  out  in  re- 
sponse to  my  name  was  inscribed  by  the  wayward 
hand  I  loved.  Already  light-headed  with  hunger 
the  sight  of  it  made  me  lunge  a  trifle  unsteadily 
towards  the  desk. 

"Know  anything  about  an  animal  called  the 
Ford?" 

A  twinkling  voice  addressed  me.  I  looked  up 
into  a  pair  of  green  eyes  that  twinkled  too. 

"From  snout  to  tail,"  I  answered. 

"Know  anything  about  a  man  named  Brown 
who  herds  the  Fords  in  London?" 

"Yes,"  I  said  in  growing  surprise. 

"Did  he  ever  mention  a  man  named  Foster*?" 

"Gave  me  a  letter  to  him." 

"You  delivered  it  of  course*?" 

"No "  My  hand  went  involuntarily  to  my 

breast  pocket. 

"Why  not?' 

"Peeved  at  the  Appleton  Ambulance,"  I  said 
somewhat  sulkily. 

"Well !  I  hope  you're  not  too  peeved  to  help 
me  out.  I'm  looking  for  a  chap  that  answers  this 


76  THE  SWALLOW 

description" — he  pulled  out  a  letter  and  began  to 
mouse  through  it — "  'mules' — um,  um — 'tea  and 
cake' — that's  not  it — 'looks  like  a  girl  but  has  the 
guts  of  a  gorilla' — here  we  are — 'Face  of  a  David 
on  shoulders  of  Goliath.  I'd  have  used  him  over 
here  but  he  was  headed  for  the  front.  He'll  lick 
the  gizzard  out  of  some  Boche.'  How  about  it, 
Mr.  Byrd?' 

"I'm  on,  Mr.  Foster,"  I  said  joyfully,  forgiving 
even  that  disparaging  comparison  to  a  girl. 

"Good !"  He  shook  hands  with  me.  His  eyes 
which  had  twinkled  respectively  over  my  leaking 
boots  and  glossy  trousers  came  back  to  mine.  "If 
you  had  presented  that  letter,"  he  said  severely, 
"you'd  have  saved  me  the  trouble  of  watching  your 
mail  and  you  wouldn't  be  looking  like  a  Belgian 
orphan.  Now  I've  got  everything  fixed  and  we're 
all  to  the  mustard.  So  if  you're  not  blase  after 
your  debauched  life  of  the  past  few  months  we'll 
see  what  you  can  do  to  a  filet  mignon." 

No  one  save  a  man  who  had  lived  for  three 
weeks  on  bread  and  coffee  could  appreciate  to  the 
full  that  jolly  little  celebration.  With  absolute 
impartiality  I  cleaned  up  everything  from  soup  to 
cheese.  Good  food  and  good  wine  under  my  skin, 
the  most  delightful  man  I  had  ever  met  as  host, 


THE  SWALLOW  77 

a  job  for  tomorrow,  Jasmine's  letter  in  my  pocket 
— it  was  a  night  of  heady  satisfaction. 

It  was  midnight  when  Mr.  Foster  left  me  at 
my  own  door.  At  last  I  was  alone  with  Jasmine. 
Before  tearing  open  the  little  white  envelope  I 
touched  it  to  my  lips.  .  .  . 

Every  drop  of  blood  in  my  body  rushed  to  my 
heart.  Was  I  going  to  faint?  No,  I  must  be  a 
man.  With  that  resolution  I  put  my  head  on  the 
pillow  and  cried  like  a  woman. 

After  that  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  picked  up 
the  letter  to  re-read  it.  Even  then  I  made  myself 
do  it.  It  was  a  kind  of  savage  sentence  of  pain 
upon  myself.  For  now  at  last  I  knew  that  my 
love  for  Jasmine  was  a  weakness.  Her  spirit  had 
not  touched  mine,  there  under  the  magnolia.  And 
as  with  a  knife-like  pain  I  read  each  word  over 
again  I  saw  Jasmine  as  she  really  was — cold  and 
soft  and  with  oh,  what  a  thrifty  sense  of  keeping 
what  she  seemed  to  refuse ! 

"We  are  far  too  young  to  think  of  such  things 
now,  Dicky-bird."  This  was  the  paragraph  that 
stabbed  me  the  most.  "Perhaps  after  awhile  when 
you  come  back — but  just  now — well,  how  do  you 
know,  perhaps  you  will  meet  somebody  over 
there." 

She  turned  me  down  on  the  plea  of  my  own  in- 


78  THE  SWALLOW 

terest  but  I  read  beneath  her  generosity  the  calcu- 
lation of  it  all.  'Twas  she  who  did  not  want  to 
be  fettered,  she  who  was  looking  shrewdly  into 
the  "perhaps"  of  these  months  while  I  was  away. 
In  all  this  letter  there  was  not  one  bit  of  tender- 
ness. There  was  none  of  the  mother  heart  in 
Jasmine  Gray. 

There  was  no  tenderness,  no !  What  there  was 
in  that  heart  was  only  a  reckoning  with  the  spec- 
tacular. Her  vanity  was  asking  to  see  herself  in 
the  romantic  role.  When  she  had  yielded  to  me 
in  the  moonlit  court  she  had  yielded  chiefly  per- 
haps to  the  glamour  of  a  departing  soldier  lover. 
When  she  refused  my  offer  now  she  refused  a 
poor  vagrant,  knocking  shabbily  on  every  back 
door  of  the  great  war.  If  there  were  any  tiny  bit 
of  courage  in  my  performance  since  I  had  left 
her,  she  did  not  see  it.  She  would  see  only  the 
trappings  of  courage.  And  when  far  down  in  her 
letter  I  read  the  promise  to  come  nurse  me  if  I  were 
ever  wounded,  I  saw  in  it  only  this  grasping  after 
the  spectacular  situation. 

Yet  though  I  saw  so  plainly  what  I  loved  it  did 
not  keep  me  from  loving.  I  wanted  her,  I  wanted* 
her !  Let  her  come  to  me  on  any  condition,  only 
let  her  come ! 

In  my  cheap  little  room  under  the  kerosene  lamp 


THE  SWALLOW  79 

on  the  oil-cloth  covered  table  I  began  to  try  to 
justify  her.  Perhaps  after  all  she  had  been  think- 
ing of  me.  Perhaps  there  was  some  little  jealousy 
of  the  unknown  in  her  letter.  She  may  have  been 
comparing  me,  who  answered  a  call  other  than 
hers,  with  Lee  Malone's  faithless  fidelity.  Ab- 
jectly, hungrily,  I  searched  her  letter  now  with 
the  determination  to  deceive  myself. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  Appleton  Ambulance  was  just  beginning 
to  send  out  squads.  Number  One  had  gone 
to  Dunkirk,  Number  Two  to  Pont-a-Mousson, 
Number  Three  to  the  Vosges.  I  had  expected  to 
be  sent  out  with  the  fourth.  I  was  detailed  in- 
stead to  look  after  the  upkeep  of  cars  for  the  field. 
This  was  a  deep  disappointment.  An  American 
office  was  a  sterile  spot  for  acquiring  the  native 
language.  Yet  French  I  must  know  before  I 
could  fight. 

However  I  picked  up  what  I  could  from  the 
natives  employed  about  the  place.  I  was  living 
in  the  hospital,  an  enormous  building  planned  for 
a  boys'  high  school  but  commandeered  as  it  neared 
completion,  for  the  Appleton  Ambulance.  In  the 
unfinished  attic  we  motor  men  had  our  dormitory. 
Our  meals  we  took  with  the  doctors  and  nurses. 

With  neither  taste  nor  money  for  dissipation  I 
could  give  every  ounce  of  strength  to  my  work. 
In  a  short  time  I  was  raised  to  the  rank  of  assist- 
ant director  with  the  relative  rank  of  second  lieu- 

80 


THE  SWALLOW  81 

tenant  in  the  Ambulance  Corps.  Because  of  my 
first  rebuff  by  the  committee  this  slight  honour 
gave  me  a  gloomy  satisfaction.  It  spurred  me  on, 
too,  to  greater  effort.  All  day  I  worked  tigerishly 
for  the  time  when  I  could  get  into  the  fight. 

During  these  weeks  I  never  once  heard  from 
Jasmine.  But  the  thought  of  her  seldom  left  me. 
Always  I  hovered  wretchedly  between  belief  in 
her  and  the  wish  to  keep  her,  whatever  she  was. 
The  one  thing  I  could  not  bear,  the  one  possibility 
I  would  not  even  admit  was  of  losing  Jasmine. 
Better  this  torture  than  that  the  old  feeling  should 

go- 
It  was  one  morning  in  July  and  I  was  busy 

overhauling  a  car  when  Mr.  Foster  came  up  to 
me. 

"Sonny,"  said  he,  "how'd  you  like  to  start  to- 
morrow with  a  convoy  of  cars'?" 

"Start  where*?"  I  stared  at  him. 

"To  the  front." 

"I'd  like  it— fine,"  I  said  huskily. 


I  saw  it,  the  mighty  blue  river  of  men  flowing 
to  the  front.  I  was  part  of  the  sluggish  stream 
that  flowed  after  it.  I  heard  the  guns  breaking 
upon  the  earth  in  wave  on  wave  of  thunder.  I 


82  THE  SWALLOW 

was  spattered  with  blood  from  the  men  I  lifted 
to  my  stretcher.  Every  torn  body  that  rested  in 
my  arms,  every  tortured  eye  that  looked  into 
mine,  bore  a  reproach.  They  seared  me  with 
shame  for  my  own  empty  purpose.  However  dear 
Jasmine  was  to  me  she  would  never  take  care  of 
me  now.  I  would  fight,  and  die  fighting,  beside 
those  men. 

*  *  * 

I  went  back  to  Paris  quivering  and  violent. 

"A  man's  part  is  to  fight — not  to  bring  a  fighter 
home." 

With  rage  in  my  voice  I  flung  the  words  at 
Foster. 

"It's  just  a  year,"  I  went  on,  "since  I  began  try- 
ing to  get  into  this  war.  And  here  I  am,  big  and 
young  and  husky,  toting  men  who  do  the  work. 
Now  I'm  going  to  apply  again  to  the  Aviation 
Corps  and  with  a  whole  bunch  to  vouch  for  me 
I  ought  to  land  this  time." 

I  did  land.  The  day  was  set  for  my  examina- 
tion. 

I  had  counted  on  my  knowledge  of  mechanics 
to  put  me  in  the  flying  corps.  But  that  was  quite 
superfluous.  Indeed  my  whole  examination  was 
a  joke.  While  an  American  to-day,  for  instance, 
is  put  through  a  dozen  severe  proofs  of  his  sta- 


THE  SWALLOW  83 

bility  as  an  aviator,  mine  was  assured  by  the  fact 
that  I  had  once  ridden  a  bicycle.  The  eye-test 
was  equally  facile.  Even  so,  it  almost  ship- 
wrecked me.  I  could  read  neither  the  letters  nor 
the  words  on  the  chart  and  was  forced  to  produce 
the  spectacles  I  had  carefully  left  outside.  Even 
then  I  could  not  pass  the  test. 

"No  wonder,  no  wonder,"  said  the  specialist, 
taking  the  spectacles  off  my  nose  and  squinting  at 
them.  "They  are  just  plain  glass.  You  need 
real  spectacles,  my  boy." 

He  jotted  down  his  report.  So  it  was  all  up. 
It  was  bad  enough  to  wear  glasses  at  all.  It 
was  hopeless  that  I  could  not  even  see  correctly 
through  them.  Despairingly  I  followed  the  re- 
ports to  the  office  of  the  chief. 

The  chief  read  my  name  and  age.  When  he 
came  to  my  birthplace  he  paused.  Was  my  na- 
tionality again  to  keep  me  out  of  the  army  as 
it  had  in  England?  My  heart  went  down  and 
down. 

"Texas,  U.  S.  A.,"  he  read.  "Is  it  then  that 
you  are  a  coo-boy*?" 

"I  sure  am,"  I  said  desperately.  "Coyote 
County,  Texas,  and  Sagebrush  Sam  is  my  middle 
name." 


84  THE  SWALLOW 

"Did  you  ever  meet  a  gentleman" — he  paused 
impressively — "called  Buffalo  William*?" 

"Knew  him  well  when  I  was  a  child.  He  was 
a  family  friend.  Used  to  ride  me  on  his  bucking 
broncho." 

"And  are  you  then  familiar  with  the  Texas 
steer T 

"She's  just  like  a  sister  to  me." 

He  gave  a  series  of  pleased  little  grunts. 

I  have  since  met  many  Frenchmen  fascinated 
by  the  American  frontier.  Whether  they  have 
been  influenced  by  Leatherstocking,  or  whether 
Cooper  occupies  the  place  he  does  on  the  French 
bookshelf  because  he  strikes  a  responsive  chord — 
I  do  not  know.  At  any  rate  the  chief,  after  a 
hurried  shuffling  of  the  reports  on  his  desk,  stood 
up  and  grasped  my  hand. 

"You  pass,"  he  beamed. 

With  this  useful  past  for  an  inducement, 
France  had  accepted  me! 

Next  day  I  signed  an  engagement  for  the  du- 
ration of  the  war  with  the  Foreign  Legion. 

There  were  several  hundred  Americans  already 
in  various  branches  of  the  Legion.  For  this  le- 
gion, awarded  to  France  at  the  Hague  Confer- 
ence, gives  any  man  the  right  to  enter  the  French 
army  and  still  retain  his  citizenship.  He  may 


THE  SWALLOW  85 

have  committed  any  crime,  he  may  have  received 
any  sentence.  But  through  the  Foreign  Legion  he 
is  born  again.  It  is  the  international  revival  meet- 
ing, the  great  chance  to  start  life  clean.  That 
it  has  lifted  grizzliest  sinners  to  heights  seldom 
reached  by  the  good  man  of  lukewarm  impulse — 
this  is  its  appeal  to  the  world's  imagination. 

As  for  me,  I  did  not  know  how  far  I  might  go 
in  it.  I  might  never  rise  beyond  mechanic.  But 
I  was  part  of  the  Foreign  Legion.  And  my  one 
regret  now  is  that  I  never  saw  service  with  it. 

For  the  present,  however,  I  was  thrillingly  con- 
tent. I  had  caught  up  with  Adventure! 

More  exuberant  than  I  had  been  for  many 
weeks,  I  said  good-bye  to  my  friends  at  the  Ambu- 
lance and  started  for  Dijon.  There  I  spent  the 
night.  Early  next  morning  I  walked  four  miles 
to  the  aviation  department. 

My  arrival  caused  no  ripple  in  that  self-centred 
whirlpool.  I  tried  to  interest  a  harassed  officer 
who  only  looked  at  me  out  of  a  haggard  eye  and 
went  on.  At  first  I  was  contented  enough  to  watch 
the  melodramatic  characters  that  composed  the 
Foreign  Legion.  A  few  approached  the  norm  but 
most  of  them  would  have  made  Fuggy  and  Sock- 
eye  look  like  preachers.  In  my  worst  nightmare 
I  had  never  dreamed  of  such  ruffians.  For  a  few 


86  THE  SWALLOW 

hours  I  followed  these  pirates  about.  But  gradu- 
ally their  fascination  paled.  Noon  passed.  I  was 
hungry  and  warm  and  tired.  But  not  till  eve- 
ning did  the  harassed  officer  finally  ask  what  I 
wanted. 

"I  want  to  know  what  to  do,"  said  I.  "I'm  an 
American." 

He  began  then  to  hustle  me  around.  Into  one 
office  after  another  he  hustled  me.  After  I  had 
signed  hundreds  of  papers,  the  import  of  which  I 
was  entirely  innocent,  he  hustled  me  into  the  Bu- 
reau Habiliment  and  ordered  for  me  the  outfit  of 
the  French  soldier.  A  weary  clerk  began  tossing 
out  clothes  to  me.  The  fit  was  a  matter  of  luck. 
Seeing  men  grab  shoes,  I  too  began  to  accumulate 
footgear.  My  harvest  consisted  of  one  Number 
Seven  shoe,  one  Number  Nine,  and  two  boots  of 
incompatible  temperament. 

Then  gathering  up  all  my  possessions  I  carried 
them  outside  for  inspection.  I  found  a  coat  and 
overcoat  of  horizon  blue  buttoning  back  from  in 
front  of  the  capot;  trousers  cut  long  to  tie  about 
the  leg;  puttees;  two  shirts  of  canvas  ticking;  one 
suit  of  underwear;  two  long  strips  of  blue  cloth, 
two  rags  and  a  long  piece  of  red  flannel.  What 
the  mission  of  these  last  three  items  I  did  not 
know.  But  they  finally  resolved  themselves  into 


THE  SWALLOW  87 

cravats,  handkerchiefs  and  a  belly  band.  Fortu- 
nately I  had  socks  and  undershirts  which  here 
were  considered  needless  luxuries.  The  rest  of  the 
outfit  consisted  of  a  knapsack,  eating  pan,  cover, 
tin  cup,  knife  and  spoon. 

I  got  into  my  uniform;  the  other  things  I  at- 
tempted to  pack.  The  knapsack  however  was  so* 
tiny  that  I  could  scarcely  squeeze  in  the  extra  shirt. 
I  sweat  and  swore  till  the  combined  perspiration 
and  profanity  moved  an  old  soldier  to  show  me 
how  to  fold  everything  in  neatly. 

I  was  then  paid  off  at  the  rate  of  one  cent  a  day 
for  the  three  days  I  had  belonged  to  the  French 
army.  Besides  this  sum  total  of  three  cents  I  was 
given  a  loaf  of  bread,  a  can  of  meat  and  a  rail- 
road ticket  to  the  aviation  school  at  Pau.  Thus 
equipped  I  started  the  four  mile  walk  back  to 
town. 

They  were  longer  miles  than  I  had  walked  in 
the  cool  of  the  morning.  Six  hours  of  standing 
about  in  the  broiling  sun  had  taken  my  zest.  The 
.knapsack  fretted  my  unaccustomed  shoulders.  My 
boots  did  not  fit.  It  was  a  subdued  knight  that 
presented  himself  at  the  hotel  door. 

I  was  pulling  myself  wearily  up  the  steps  to 
my  room  when  I  was  astonished  to  see  the  land- 
lady bar  the  way.  Talking  excitedly  she  would 


88  THE  SWALLOW 

not  hear  my  explanation.  Then  suddenly  peering 
into  my  face  she  threw  up  her  hands  and  laughecf 
till  she  cried. 

"Mon  pauvre,  mon  pauvre"  she  murmured, 
dragging  me  to  my  room. 

I  had  left  Dijon  that  morning  in  the  trim  khaki 
of  the  Appleton  Ambulance.  I  had  returned  to 
Dijon  in  a  costume  that  would  have  intimidated 
the  bravest  crow  in  the  corn  belt.  My  coat  sleeves 
stopped  just  below  the  elbow.  My  trousers  would 
have  accommodated  two  of  me.  Used  only  to 
spirals,  I  had  strapped  these  straight  puttees  on 
hind  side  before.  No  wonder  the  landlady  did 
not  recognise  me.  Yet  I  confess  that  her  pitying 
enjoyment  of  my  plight  was  my  first  experience 
in  the  horrors  of  war. 

Next  morning  I  left  Dijon  for  Pau.  As  my 
route  ran  through  Paris,  I  spent  the  night  there.  I 
wanted  to  call  at  the  Ambulance  but,  trussed  up 
as  I  was,  would  not  expose  myself  to  the  rough 
blasts  of  friendship.  So  digging  deep  into  my 
shallow  savings  I  put  up  at  a  cheap  hotel  and  by 
way  of  celebration  that  night  invited  myself  to  a 
liqueur  at  Maxim's. 

So  cloistered  had  been  my  life  at  the  Ambulance 
that  I  was  bewildered  by  the  gaudy  red  place. 
Men  and  women  pursuing  pleasure  with  the  anx- 


THE  SWALLOW  89 

ious  vivacity  of  the  Parisian,  permissionnaires 
packing  their  short  leave  full  of  gaiety — it  was 
all  as  new  as  when  I  first  came  to  Paris  last 
spring. 

A  number  of  people,  after  the  grateful  fashion 
of  the  French  with  the  soldiers,  tried  to  be  friend- 
ly. But  as  I  was  unable  to  answer  and  it  never 
occurred  to  them  that  a  man  in  horizon-blue  could 
not  speak  French,  they  gave  me  up  as  a  sour,  surly 
fellow. 

So  in  spite  of  its  novelty  Maxim's  held  little 
seduction  for  a  penniless,  badly-dressed,  speech- 
less stranger.  Too  lonely  to  enjoy  it  further  I  was 
about  to  pay  for  my  liqueur  and  go  to  bed  when  a 
little  girl,  drifting  by  my  table,  threw  me  a  smile. 
I  smiled  back,  thankfully  I  suppose,  for  she  sat 
down.  I  ordered  coffee  for  the  two  of  us.  We 
were  not  able  to  say  much  to  each  other  but  mak- 
ing up  in  smiles  we  sat  rather  shyly  sipping  our 
coffee  from  the  tall  glasses.  She  was  one  of  the 
blonde  French  with  nose,  eyebrows  and  mouth 
that  tilted  up.  Long  blue  eyes,  red  lips,  all  her 
compact  little  figure  surged  with  the  sap  of  youth. 
My  own  youth  responded.  Less  shyly  now  I 
leaned  over  to  plant  a  long  look  in  her  eyes.  I  had 
forgotten  that  I  was  never  again  to  be  stirred  by 
any  woman.  Her  glance  fluttered  under  mine  and 


go  THE  SWALLOW 

dropped  to  the  gloves  she  was  drawing  through  her 
hands.  Then  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  the 
gloves  were  mine.  How  had  she  got  them  so 
quietly  ? 

I  had  heard  dark  tales  of  cocottes.  "She  is  go- 
ing to  implicate  me  in  some  way  through  those 
gloves,"  flashed  through  my  mind. 

Reaching  over,  I  tried  gently  to  take  them  from 
her  but  her  fingers  closed  over  them.  I  tried  again 
less  gently,  but  chattering  like  a  magpie,  she  drew 
them  back. 

"Give  me  those  gloves,"  I  commanded. 

"Non,  non,  non"  and  she  jerked  them  out  of 
my  hand. 

As  we  had  bridged  our  lingual  difficulties  before 
in  smiles  we  now  resorted  to  scowls  and  noise. 
Her  face  was  red  with  anger  and  she  kept  up  a 
constant  stamping  of  her  foot. 

"You  little  devil " 

I  didn't  finish  the  sentence.  She  had  slapped 
my  face  with  the  gloves.  I  got  up  so  suddenly 
that  I  upset  the  table. 

That  was  enough  for  the  French  public.  With 
the  same  inflammable  partisanship  they  brought  to 
the  support  of  their  cabbies,  they  surrounded  us. 
Some  glared  at  me,  some  hissed  at  her,  all  buzzed 
like  insects.  In  a  second  I  was  ushered  out  by  a 


THE  SWALLOW  91 

policeman.  At  the  door  a  gendarme  awaited  me. 
I  looked  around  desperately. 

"Does  any  one  here  speak  English*?"  I  asked, 
raising  my  voice  above  the  angry  clacking. 

Some  one  volunteered.  I  stated  my  case.  He 
interpreted. 

"Then  we  all  go  to  court,"  decided  the  gen- 
darme. 

My  suspicions  of  French  courts  were  as  dark  as 
my  forebodings  about  cocottes.  I  had  heard 
enough  rumour  to  know  that  my  case  was  hopeless. 
They  would  never  take  my  word  against  the  girl's. 
I  could  not  talk  and  she  would  be  able  to  put  up 
a  fluent  defence;  this  she  was  demonstrating  now 
as  she  trotted  beside  the  gendarme.  I  had  dis- 
graced my  uniform.  I  would  be  thrown  into  pris- 
on. I  could  not  report  for  duty  at  Pau.  Prob- 
ably I  would  be  expelled  from  the  army.  And  no 
one  would  believe  that  I  had  not  stolen  gloves 
from  a  poor  cocotte !  Sweat  broke  out  on  my  face. 
Why,  why  had  I  gone  to  Maxim's  *? 

Arriving  at  court  I  announced  through  the  in- 
terpreter that  the  girl  had  stolen  my  gloves.  My 
small  opponent  put  up  a  vigorous  counter  accusa- 
tion. I  motioned  to  the  sergeant  to  look  at  the 
stamp  inside  the  gloves.  It  was  that  of  an  Eng- 
lish firm.  The  little  girl,  not  at  all  daunted  by 


92  THE  SWALLOW 

this  evidence,  said  that  this  very  afternoon  an 
Englishman  had  given  them  to  her. 

To  my  absolute  amazement  the  sergeant  took 
my  word,  unhesitatingly,  against  hers.  He  or- 
dered her  to  return  the  gloves.  She  refused.  She 
stamped  her  foot  and  cried  and  stuck  the  gloves  in- 
side her  blouse ! 

This  would  have  routed  American  justice.  Not 
so  French.  Two  burly  gendarmes  seized  her  and 
after  a  scuffle  in  which  one  of  them  had  his  face 
scratched,  they  handed  me  the  gloves.  They  were 
pretty  rough  with  her  so  that  I  was  sorry  I  had 
not  let  the  gloves  go  and  risked  intrigue.  But  re- 
lieved inexpressibly  at  my  own  release  I  went  back 
to  Maxim's.  And  I  could  not  resist,  as  I  entered, 
giving  the  gloves  an  ostentatious  flirt.  Every  one 
smiled. 

In  a  moment  my  small  enemy  returned,  red  and 
ruffled,  and  still  scolding. 

"You  little  devil,"  I  said,  "you  have  your  nerve 
to  come  back  here." 

With  a  toss  of  her  head  she  stuck  out  her  little 
red  tongue.  At  this  the  smiles  of  the  crowd  broke 
into  laughter  in  which  I  joined.  Then,  having 
established  my  honesty,  I  went  back  to  my  room. 
As  I  took  off  my  overcoat  my  own  gloves,  made  by 
the  same  well-known  firm,  fell  out ! 


THE  SWALLOW  93 

"Oh,  damn !"  I  said  aloud. 

I  knew  that  I  had  been  a  cad.  I  knew  that  I 
should  go  back  to  find  my  little  victim.  But  as 
I  could  not  make  myself  understood  I  should  prob- 
ably be  arrested.  And  I  had  worked  too  hard  and 
too  long  for  my  uniform  to  have  it  taken  from  me 
now. 

"Damn,  damn,  damn,"  I  kept  repeating  in  bed 
as  I  thought  of  the  way  the  gendarmes  had  han- 
dled her.  I  often  wondered  afterwards  what  that 
poor  little  poule  thought  of  the  American  that 
stole  her  gloves;  and  the  wonder  always  brought 
a  blush. 

*  *  * 

I  spent  the  next  night  at  a  hotel  in  Pau  which, 
by  the  way,  ate  up  my  next  year's  pay.  Next  morn- 
ing I  walked  from  the  town  to  the  aviation  camp. 
As  I  drew  close  I  began  to  run.  When  I  could  see 
the  big  muddy  field  with  its  long  rows  of  portable 
buildings,  its  immense  canvas  hangars  and  sky- 
lights, its  great  winged  planes  rising  and  falling, 
when  I  recognised  the  place  where  Wilbur  Wright 
had  given  exhibitions — then  I  broke  into  wild 
whoops.  I  was  here,  I  was  here ! 

In  the  Barrack  des  Strangers  where  I  was  sent  I 
found  natives  of  every  nation  in  the  world — un- 
less it  was  Germany.  I  found  Mexicans,  Cubans, 


94  THE  SWALLOW 

Russians,  Peruvians,  and  men  from  countries  that 
I  did  not  know  existed. 

The  matted  sound  of  all  these  strange  tongues 
wrapped  me  in  isolation.  If  there  were  just  one 
choice  spirit  to  savour  with  me  this  hour !  Defeat 
I  could  bear  unsupported  but  triumph — what  was 
triumph  without  some  one  to  share  it1?  Even  at 
this  supreme  moment  when  I  stood  at  the  gate  of 
Adventure  I  was  conscious  that  I  stood  alone. 

But  the  great  fact  was  that  I  was  here.  I  hur- 
ried out.  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  off  the  air 
through  which  big  and  little  craft  moved  with 
wings  steady  or  uncertain. 

"Take  her  easy  now,  youngster.  You'll  feel 
better  soon.  To-morrow  yuh  can  sit  up  awhile 
and  the  next  day  yuh  can  have  a  little  gruel." 

The  nasal  intonation,  the  sloppy  speech,  the 
jeering  of  my  native  land!  Leaving  the  sky  my 
hypnotised  gaze  lighted  on  two  lanky  forms  both 
in  horizon-blue  and  both  unmistakably  American. 
Hull  I  had  met  at  the  Ambulance.  Payne  I  knew 
by  reputation  for  his  service  in  the  trenches.  As 
I  gripped  their  hands  I  felt  my  mouth  widen  in  a 
grin  of  joy.  I  still  stood  at  the  gate  of  Adventure. 
I  no  longer  stood  alone. 


THE  SWALLOW  95 

I  was  ready  to  leave  El  Paso.  The  whole  town 
was  out  to  see  me  off.  "What  a  pity  the  census- 
taker  isn't  here,"  thought  I,  "it  would  save  him 
weeks  of  work."  The  mayor  was  making  a  speech. 
My  mother  was  smiling.  The  fellows  were  clam- 
ouring for  a  last  shake  of  my  hand — all  except  Lee 
Malone  who  skulked  by  himself.  The  girls  were 
cheering.  Jasmine — Jasmine  was  begging  me  to 
kiss  her — before  all  those  people !  I  was  torn  be- 
tween embarrassment  and  pride  on  the  one  side, 
on  the  other  my  deep  desire.  Night  fell  magically 
and  curtained  us  with  dark  solitude.  I  sought  for 
her  soft  lips,  sought  and  found  them.  My  pulses 
beat  tumultuously.  I  had  meant  to  be  only  kind. 
I  had  not  meant  to  be  drawn  down,  down,  down, 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  deadly  sweetness  of 
those  lips.  I  fought  against  them.  "Take  me 
with  you."  She  drew  her  slender  hands  down  my 
face.  "Take  me  with  you."  She  held  up  her 
arms  and  leaned  against  me.  My  senses  swam. 
We  two  alone  in  the  clouds.  Her  lips  would  be 
mine  in  a  world-long  kiss —  but  how  could  I  fly? 
She  must  not  come  during,  she  must  come  after. 
Attainment  first,  then  the  sweet  reward.  "When  I 
come  back,"  I  whispered,  "then  I  will  take  you." 
I.  jumped  into  the  car  and  shouted  "Contact!" 
The  ropes  were  cut.  Up  I  soared  and  off,  over 


96  THE  SWALLOW 

prairies  and  mountains  and  cheering  cities  and 
oceans.  Far  below,  far  behind  trailed  Jasmine 
and  my  world  of  home.  They  would  reach  Ger- 
many just  in  time  to  see  me  face  a  winged  army, 
face  it,  conquer  it 

"We  can't  get  'em  up,  we  can't  get  'em  up, 
We  can't  get  'em  up  in  the  morning!" 

How  strange  to  hear  the  old  American  reveillez 
here  in  Germany! 

"Hell!"  I  shouted  angrily.  "Who's  making 
this  row*?  I  was  right  on  the  Crown  Prince's  tail, 
too!" 

"Five-thirty,"  said  Payne  from  the  bunk  next 
mine.  "Jump  up  and  jump  in,  you  poor  simp." 

Hustling  out  of  bed  he  dipped  his  tin  cup  in  a 
bucket  of  black  coffee  that  a  man  was  carrying 
through  the  barrack. 

With  an  unnatural  politeness  due  to  a  brain  still 
too  dazed  by  dreams  of  love  and  world-power  to 
fight  off  the  hungry  mob,  I  didn't  get  my  share. 
But  it  was  the  last  time  that  courtesy  interfered 
with  my  brimming  mug  of  hot  coffee;  for  it  was 
our  only  nourishment  until  noon. 

Following  the  example  of  Hull  and  Payne  I 
jumped  into  my  clothes  and  hurried  out  to  the 
field  where  we  were  due  at  a  quarter  to  six.  After 


THE  SWALLOW  97 

reporting  there  we  came  back  to  barracks  to  roll 
our  mattresses  and  sleeping  sacks.  Next  came 
Appeal  when  the  daily  report  of  punishments  and 
duties  was  read.  A  bunch  of  men  was  fined — 
some  for  going  to  Pau  without  permission,  some 
for  not  wearing  their  coats  to  town,  some  for  being 
late  at  Call. 

Practice  lasted  from  ten-thirty  till  noon.  Then 
after  a  meal  of  beef  with  beans,  macaroni  or  pota- 
toes we  could  rest  till  two.  Second  practice  began 
then  and  lasted  till  it  was  dark. 

Although  I  was  not  yet  posted  for  duty  I  could 
not  stay  off  the  field.  Around  and  around  I 
walked,  just  inside  the  fence  out  of  the  way  of  ma- 
chines. 

It  was  not  yet  seven  o'clock  of  my  first  day.  I 
was  watching  a  flier  some  thousand  feet  up.  Sud- 
denly he  dove.  He  pulled  up  his  machine  but  it 
hit  the  ground.  The  tail,  breaking  in  two,  dug  a 
hole  a  foot  deep.  I  was  the  first  to  reach  the  poor 
chap.  I  helped  carry  out  the  body.  For  an  hour  I 
trembled  like  a  girl. 

And  yet  the  field  drew  me.  My  eyes  scarcely 
left  the  sky.  That  very  day  I  was  watching  two 
machines.  They  drew  close  to  each  other — dan- 
gerously close,  it  seemed  to  me  ...  I  cried  out. 
They  bumped  in  midair.  They  dropped,  they 


98  THE  SWALLOW 

struck.  Once  more  I  was  the  first  to  reach  the  ma- 
chines. Once  more  I  helped  carry  out  the  dead. 
In  less  than  twelve  hours  I  had  seen  three  men 
killed.  I  leaned  up  against  the  wall  and  was  sick. 
And  still  the  field  drew  me.  I  stayed  away  from  it 
only  to  snatch  food  and  sleep. 

In  spite  of  my  gruesome  initiation  my  own  de- 
sire was  mounting.  When  could  I  begin1?  On 
the  third  day  came  my  answer.  I  was  given  my 
number.  Fifty-six!  This  meant  that  fifty-five 
others  would  be  called  before  I  could  even  start 
training. 

With  other  pilot  students  then  I  was  put  on 
field  duty  as  mechanic.  All  day  we  turned  the 
tails  of  other  men's  machines. 

A  month  passed.  I  was  still  turning  tails. 
Should  I  never  fly?  Should  I  spend  the  rest  of 
my  life  in  one  treadmill  after  another?  Was  I 
who  burned  to  roam  the  skies  to  be  a  "penguin" 
rolling  on  the  ground"? 

But  the  penguin  does  give  place  to  fleeter  craft 
and  turning  tails  did  come  to  an  end. 

On  a  white,  misty  morning  in  October  I  began 
practice. 

Trundling  back  and  forth  over  the  muddy  field 
in  my  short-winged  Bleriot  was  absorbing  enough 
for  a  day  or  two.  Then  I  wanted  something  crag- 


THE  SWALLOW  99 

gier  for  my  energies.  But  I  had  to  content  my- 
self with  perfecting  my  technique. 

There  was  no  dual  control  in  this  school.  The 
pilot  was  required  to  learn  every  step  by  himself. 
So  I  had  to  learn  the  movements  in  three  different 
penguins  before  I  was  promoted  to  a  machine  with 
full-sized  wings.  In  this  I  could  leave  the  ground 
by  one  or  two  feet,  making  the  thousand  yards  to 
the  end  of  the  field  in  a  series  of  jumps.  Then 
with  the  motor  sped  up  I  rose  a  yard  or  two  and 
made  a  little  landing. 

In  my  next  machine,  of  the  same  type  but  higher 
power,  I  dove  a  bit  and  corrected  my  motions  so 
as  to  make  a  smoother  landing.  It  was  like  taking 
a  dancing  lesson  in  the  air — circle  to  the  left,  turn 
to  the  right,  back  to  the  centre,  turn  to  the  left.  I 
learned  to  keep  the  machine  in  perfect  poise.  By 
tipping  the  wings  I  learned  to  make  a  precarious 
bow.  I  did  figure  eights.  I  glided,  turning  at  the 
same  time  I  glided. 

One  hundred  yards,  two  hundred  yards,  five 
hundred  yards !  Hour  by  hour,  day  by  day,  foot 
by  foot,  yard  by  yard,  I  was  gaining  on  Adven- 
ture. If  I  could  have  stepped  into  the  car  and 
flown  off,  that  would  have  been  conquest.  But  so 
gradual  was  the  ascent  that  I  could  hardly  feel 
myself  mounting.  Even  the  official  spiral  was 


ioo  THE  SWALLOW 

just  another  scramble  up  the  slopes.  Not  till  I 
could  take  my  cross-country  flight  would  the  peaks 
be  mine ! 

The  weather  all  that  autumn  was  windy  or 
rainy  or  foggy  or  lowering.  Any  of  these  condi- 
tions was  bad  for  cross-country  flying.  I  had  al- 
ways thought  that  my  will  could  dominate  any 
situation  but  I  had  always  thought  of  the  will  to 
act.  Now  I  had  to  acquire  the  will  to  wait. 

In  such  torpor  Jasmine's  image,  submerged  in 
more  tumultuous  hours,  would  rise  up  to  torment 
me.  Sometimes  at  night  in  spite  of  my  longing, 
perhaps  because  of  it,  I  would  decide  with  finality 
not  to  forgive  her.  At  last  I  knew  that  I  had 
finished  with  her,  irrevocably.  In  this  bitter  peace 
the  sleep  that  crept  over  my  exhausted  body  would 
flow  up  into  my  brain  until  it  caught  and  drowned 
each  fleeting  thought  .  .  .  sleep  deep  and  dream- 
less as  the  sea  .  .  .  then  disturbed  memories  that 
hovered  over  the  depth  .  .  .  memories  that  plunged 
and  brought  me  up  out  of  the  brief,  kind  stupor 
into  living  pain.  My  eyes  would  be  wet;  I  had 
cried  in  my  sleep.  Evoked  by  dreams,  the  image 
would  linger  among  my  waking  senses  .  .  .  the 
dark  Spanish  eyes  with  their  tropical  warmth  that 
was  not  warmth,  the  fruity  hair  and  cheeks,  the 
little  fragile  fingers.  I  could  hear  the  rustling 


THE  SWALLOW  101 

voice.  I  could  see  her  as  she  looked  up  at  me  the 
first  time  we  had  danced  together.  I  could  feel 
the  freshness  of  her  lips  in  the  perfumed  darkness 
under  the  magnolias.  And  in  that  hour  of  lonely 
yearning  before  dawn  I  would  murmur  the  words 
I  had  written  her:  "I  never  cared  for  any  one  but 
you.  I  never  can.  I'm  not  going  to  give  up  yet. 
But  don't  forget  one  thing — that  when  I'm  wound- 
ed you're  to  come  over  and  take  care  of  me." 

After  such  a  night  as  this  my  only  relief  was 
to  walk.  Feverishly  I  took  long,  exhausting  hikes 
until  my  throbbing  muscles  promised  oblivion  at 
night.  During  these  days  I  had  one  companion. 
Hull  and  Payne  had  already  completed  their 
courses  and  gone  on.  And,  as  my  accomplishments 
did  not  include  a  familiarity  with  Russian,  Peru- 
vian or  Chinese,  I  had  to  confine  social  intercourse 
to  an  English-speaking  Jap. 

The  Jap  was  a  gallant  fellow.  He  could  fly 
fairly  well  but  he  could  not  land.  "What  do  you 
do  when  you  want  to  land?"  I  asked  once,  curious 
about  the  mental  make-up  that,  with  his  will  and 
intelligence,  inhibited  this  one  feat.  "I  cut  my 
motor,  I  dive,  I  close  my  eyes,  I  wait."  This  was 
what  he  literally  did.  And  every  time  he  tried  to 
land  he  smashed  a  machine.  With  Oriental  tough- 
ness he  persisted.  But  he  cost  the  government  so 


102  THE  SWALLOW 

much  in  machinery  that  the  captain  decided  to  dis- 
charge him.  It  is  of  course  such  a  disgrace  for  a 
Jap  to  start  anything  he  can't  finish  that  Moiche 
threatened  hari-kari.  And  to  prevent  the  spectacle 
of  a  disembowelled  student,  the  horrified  captain 
let  him  stay.  After  I  left  I  received  one  letter 
from  him.  It  began :  "Dear  My  Friend  Mr.  Rich- 
ard Byrd."  I  learned  soon  afterwards  that,  still 
attempting  the  landing  he  was  never  able  to  make, 
he  had  been  smashed  to  the  ground  near  his  han- 
gar. 

While  I  was  still  at  Pau  we  spent  many  hours 
together  walking  through  the  fiery  autumn  woods. 
Next  to  landing  his  ambition  was  to  master  Amer- 
ican slang.  In  return  for  what  I  taught  him  he 
gave  me  a  few  lessons  in  Japanese.  And  it  was 
in  the  midst  of  one  of  these  strange  studies  that 
an  officer  summoned  me.  To-morrow  had  been 
set  for  my  cross-country  flight ! 

The  sheltered  quiet  sunshine  that  had  made  Pau 
famous  as  a  winter  resort  had  come  at  last.  Fog 
and  wind  had  gone.  It  was  a  still  December  morn- 
ing when  Moiche  helped  me  into  my  fur  combina- 
tion. I  was  to  fly  fifty  miles  south  over  a  small 
town,  return  without  landing  and  fly  fifty  miles 
west.  Then  would  follow  the  official  triangle  and 
my  training  was  complete. 


THE  SWALLOW  103 

My  flesh,  which  had  tingled  deliciously  with  the 
cold  when  I  first  stepped  out  on  the  field,  was  now 
creeping  with  another  sensation.  As,  calmly  pull- 
ing down  my  helmet  and  up  my  gauntlets,  I 
walked  to  the  machine,  I  trusted  that  no  one  would 
notice  how  the  calves  of  my  legs  wobbled.  Fasten- 
ing my  safety  belt,  I  settled  myself  fussily. 

"Contact!"  called  the  mechanician. 

"Cuh-cuh-contact !"  I  chattered. 

"Cuh-cuh-cold  feet!"  jeered  Moiche,  tempted 
from  his  usual  eastern  courtesy  by  this  chance  to 
display  his  learning. 

Some  one  laughed.  There  seemed  an  extraor- 
dinarily large  number  of  visitors. 

Taxi-ing  across  the  field  I  came  back,  mounting 
in  circles.  I  had  expected  a  kind  of  trance  in 
which  mundane  things  would  disappear.  But 
there  were  the  narrow  eyes  and  fat  little  mouth  of 
Moiche,  the  stiff  black  head  of  the  mechanician, 
the  square  upturned  face  of  some  visitor,  his  arms 
thrust  into  his  overcoat  pockets.  How  disappoint- 
ing  

Just  then  my  motor  took  the  bit  in  its  teeth  and 
galloped  off.  "Whoa,  whoa!"  I  shrieked,  then 
was  glad  no  one  could  hear  me.  My  hands  felt 
suddenly  small  and  weak.  How  could  I  quiet  this 
roaring,  snorting  monster  of  energy  tearing  over 


104  THE  SWALLOW 

space4?  I  clutched  the  controls.  The  movement 
grew  smoother  and  stiller.  From  the  tail  of  my 
eye  I  cast  down  a  furtive  glance.  The  earth  was 
backing  away.  The  old  castle,  the  moat  and  draw- 
bridge, the  canal,  the  twisted  rope  of  water — all 
were  backing  off  from  me  as  fast  as  they  could  go. 
Even  the  pine  forest  was  floating  away  like  a  green 
veil  blown  from  a  woman's  shoulder.  I  threw  an 
elated  thought  to  Jasmine  and  to  mother.  I  had 
caught  up  with  Adventure ! 

I  was  one  with  the  eagle.  I  sat  between  its  po- 
tent wings.  I  was  fleeter  than  the  wind.  I  was 
lighter  than  those  luminous  clouds  below  me.  I 
awakened  the  dawn.  I  opened  the  gates  of  the 
morning.  I  tread  the  rays  of  the  sun  to  the  sun's 
rim,  and  it  quailed  before  me. 

In  a  fairly  decent  landing  I  slid  down  to  earth. 

"Oh  boy,  oh  boy,"  was  all  I  could  say  as  picking 
Moiche  up  by  the  shoulder-blades  I  fox-trotted 

him  across  the  barracks. 

*  *  * 

Then  came  the  official  triangle.  On  it  I  flew 
south  to  a  small  town,  made  a  landing,  flew  west 
for  another  landing  and  then  flew  back  to  the  field. 
This  was  not  accomplished  so  quickly  as  it  might 
have  been.  For  of  course  like  every  other  aviator 
I  was  lost  on  my  triangle  and  landed  near  a  quaint, 


THE  SWALLOW  105 

red-roofed  village,  where  the  mayor  and  the 
schoolmaster  grew  heated  over  the  honour  of  en- 
tertaining me. 

I  explained  to  the  city  fathers  that  since  the 
schoolmaster  spoke  English  I  would  spend  the 
night  with  him.  Probably  no  one  suspected  that 
this  decision  was  influenced  by  the  dominie's  pretty 
daughter.  It  was  a  happy  choice.  The  supper  of 
onion  soup,  omelette  souffle  and  wine  served  me  by 
Madame  before  the  ruddy  hearth,  the  eager  ques- 
tions of  Monsieur  about  the  craft  and  art  of  flying, 
the  ripe  black  eyes  and  ripe  red  lips  of  Mademoi- 
selle— these  made  me  glad  I  had  forsworn  the 
mayor's  more  imposing  entertainment  for  the  hos- 
pitality of  this  little  stone  cottage. 

This  official  triangle  gave  more  leisure  than  the 
cross-country  flight  for  the  enjoyment  of  my  own 
sensations.  They  had  lost  no  exultancy.  I  had 
discovered  a  new  world.  Its  foundation  was  a  sea 
of  clouds.  It  was  established  on  sunlit  floods. 

The  last  test  was  one  of  height.  After  staying 
up  an  hour  at  an  altitude  of  two  thousand  yards  I 
received  my  brevet.  I  was  now  a  pilot  and  ordered 
to  a  second  school  at  Laon. 

Christmas  I  was  invited  to  spend  at  the  Apple- 
ton  Ambulance.  So  with  my  wings  and  star  and 
corporal's  stripe  to  take  the  curse  off  my  shoddy 


106  THE  SWALLOW 

uniform  I  reached  the  Gare  du  Nord  in  holiday 
fettle. 

Paris  too  was  in  festal  mood.  The  air  was  cold 
and  brilliant  and  tonic.  The  city  was  distilling  its 
perfume — the  tantalising  smell  of  baking  bread, 
frying  onions,  roasting  chestnuts ;  sweat  of  horses ; 
motors  exuding  gasoline;  scented  garments  of 
women;  spicy  breath  of  carnations  in  the  florist's 
window;  pungent  whiffs  of  bay-rum  through  the 
barber's  door.  The  city  was  making  its  music  too 
— the  clash  of  wheels  against  the  cobble-stones, 
the  tangled  skein  of  voices  and  the  faint,  far  sound 
of  the  guns.  The  black  stream  that  flowed  down 
the  boulevards  was  touched  with  currents  of  hori- 
zon-blue and  ruffled  with  gleams  of  feminine 
brightness.  As  I  made  my  way  to  the  Ambulance, 
every  sense  carolled  its  enjoyment  of  the  sights  and 
sounds  and  smells  of  Paris. 

Thanks  to  the  wings  on  my  collar  I  found  my- 
self a  bit  of  a  hero.  There  was  at  the  Ambulance  a 
tendency  to  fete  me,  one  which,  because  of  my 
shaggy  appearance,  I  started  to  protest. 

But  the  "Foster-Father"  of  the  Ambulance  as 
my  first  and  best  friend  there  was  called,  had  an- 
ticipated my  vanity.  Foster  himself,  beyond  the 
age  for  more  active  service,  did  his  part  in  a  dozen 
other  ways.  One  of  them  was  the  treats  he  was 


THE  SWALLOW  107 

always  giving  the  boys.  Dinners,  gifts,  money 
smuggled  into  one's  possession — by  such  means 
did  Foster  make  life  more  livable  for  young  Amer- 
icans in  the  war  not  yet  their  own.  Perhaps  be- 
cause my  determined  efforts  to  get  into  service  had 
amused  him,  he  was  even  more  of  a  foster-father 
to  me.  So  now,  aided  by  the  measurement  of  my 
khaki,  he  had  ready  for  me  a  finely  tailored  uni- 
form, worthy  the  wings  that  were  at  once  trans- 
ferred to  it.  In  the  pocket  he  had  left  a  thick  roll 
of  greenbacks.  "Christmas  Evergreens,"  they 
were  labelled. 

"That's  enough,"  he  said  when  I  tried  to  thank 
him.  "King  and  Stoner  left  word  there  was  to  be 
a  meeting  of  all  American  aviators  at  Louey's 
Cafe  at  five  to-day.  I'm  giving  you  a  chow-party 
to-night.  And  I  want  you  to  be  a  credit  to  the 
A.  A." 

There  were  other  gifts,  too — candy  and  cakes 
from  Mother,  cigarettes  from  the  boys,  and  from 
Jasmine — yes,  from  Jasmine — a  small,  flat  parcel. 
With  quickened  breath  I  wrenched  off  the  wrap- 
per. Herself!  The  great  eyes  looked  softly  into 
mine,  the  full  curved  lips  repeated  their  old  magic. 
My  heart  gave  a  throb  of  pain.  It  was  her  first 
message  since  that  fateful  letter.  As  always,  she 
had  known  the  best  way  to  keep  my  heart  aching. 


io8  THE  SWALLOW 

I  tucked  the  little  photograph  into  the  pocket 
of  my  new  uniform.  It  lay  there  beside  the  stiff, 
green  bills.  For  a  moment  I  stood  helpless  under 
the  rush  of  that  old  feeling.  Then  with  a  bitter 
recovery  I  started  for  the  door.  Jasmine  was  not 
all.  I  was  twenty-one.  I  was  wearing  the  avia- 
tor's uniform.  It  was  Christmas  Eve.  As  I  strode 
through  the  long  halls  of  the  hospital  I  was  re- 
peating these  things  to  myself.  For  the  first  time 
I  faced  what  is  so  difficult  for  youth  to  face — 
the  fleetness  of  grief,  the  powers  of  the  future. 

It  was  just  as  I  reached  the  doorway  of  the  last 
ward  that  I  saw  a  nurse  reaching  up  to  straighten 
a  festoon.  Squarely  under  the  mistletoe !  I  was 
reckless  with  my  new,  hard  optimism.  Clasping 
an  arm  about  the  whiteclad  figure  I  was  about  to 
go  further.  Her  back  stiffened  as  she  whirled 
about  and  Irish  eyes  faced  me  stormily.  I  fell 
back.  I  recognised  those  eyes  at  once.  It  was  the 
girl  I  had  seen  wheeling  the  crippled  soldier  in  the 
Dublin  station,  the  girl  who  had  picked  me  out 
;for  her  merry,  tonic  smile  of  inquiry. 

"Beg  pardon — Cussmas — American  kisstom,"  I 
stammered  into  the  outraged  face.  "I'm  awfully 
sorry — truly." 

"Oh — it's  you,  is  it  ?    You'd  better  be  sorry !" 

She  remembered  me!     I  tingled  with  triumph. 


THE  SWALLOW  109 

Even  in  the  change  from  my  mongrel  livery  of 
that  Dublin  night  to  this  natty  horizon-blue,  she 
remembered ! 

"What  are  you  doing  in  that  uniform^"  I  asked 
at  last.  Then  realising  my  inanity  I  blushed. 

"Oh,"  said  she  casually,  answering  the  blush, 
"shoeing  horses,  digging  potatoes,  cutting  lumber 
— all  the  little  things  expected  of  a  nurse  in  the 
hospital.  What  are  you  doing  in  that  uniform4?" 

"Oh,"  answered  I,  "mending  the  baby's  clothes, 
putting  up  preserves,  arranging  the  flowers — all 
the  little  things  expected  of  a  flier  on  the  field." 

We  both  laughed.  Then  with  a  little  nod  she 
started  off. 

"Don't  go,"  I  begged  in  dismay.  "I  haven't  seen 
a  woman  for  months."  I  would  have  caught  at 
her  hand  but  was  too  thoroughly  intimidated. 

"None  of  them  have,  poor  dears,"  she  answered 
pityingly. 

She  put  her  head  on  one  side  and  looked  at  me 
as  if  she  were  denying  a  child. 

"And  I'm  running  away  from  my  boys  to-night 
so  I  mustn't  neglect  them  now." 

I  looked  after  her.  Why,  I  wondered  ungrate- 
fully, didn't  that  donkey  of  a  Foster  ask  her  to- 
night1? By  jove,  I  would  make  him  do  it  yet.  As 
I  turned  back  to  find  him  I  remembered  that  I 


no  THE  SWALLOW 

didn't  know  her  name.  But  I  would  describe  her. 
Little — oh,  very  little,  blue  eyes,  dash  of  brogue, 
black  curly  hair,  crisp  walk.  I  stopped  short.  She 
had  said  she  was  going  out  to-night. 

"Oh,  damn,"  I  muttered.  "Well,  I'll  look  her 
up  to-morrow." 

I  was  the  last  to  arrive  at  Louey's  Cafe,  where 
there  was  a  jovial  reunion  between  Hull,  Payne 
and  myself.  There  were  three  older  men,  too, 
already  distinguished  fliers,  whom  I  had  never  met. 
As  I  looked  over  the  crowd  I  remembered  some 
one's  definition  of  an  aviator — a  womanly  war- 
rior. The  two  airmen  most  renowned  were  espec- 
ially true  to  type.  King's  square  chin  and  endur- 
ing eyes  were  those  of  a  soldier  but  his  dimples  and 
delicate  brows  would  have  lent  charm  to  a  girl. 
Stoner,  long-limbed,  high-bred,  was  sensitive  as  a 
poet,  unswerving  as  an  explorer. 

Warm-blooded  and  hardy  from  camp  life,  we 
chose  a  pavement  table  in  the  cold,  medicinal  sun- 
shine. All  of  us,  I  think,  were  in  a  pleasant  com- 
motion. We  sniffed  something  epic  in  the  air. 
But  not  till  our  glasses  were  filled,  not  till  his 
cigar  glowed  steadily,  did  King  relieve  our  impa- 
tience. A  man  of  wordless  force  he  made  what 
was  for  him  a  long  and  eloquent  speech : 

"Fellows,  there  are  now  half  a  dozen  of  us 


THE  SWALLOW  in 

breveted  pilots  from  the  U.  S.  A.  Why  don't  we 
get  together  and  form  an  American  Squad  *?" 

Puffing  his  cigar  excitedly,  he  looked  into  one 
face  after  another.  We  were  quiet  at  first  under 
what  seemed  to  us  an  epoch-making  suggestion. 
Then  the  spark  slowly  caught.  We  took  fire.  We 
pounded  the  table,  we  clashed  our  glasses. 

It  was  some  time  before  King  could  bring  us 
Bown  to  earth.  There  were  many  details  that  must 
be  taken  up  with  many  officials.  These  we  had  to 
work  out  now;  in  a  few  days  we  should  all  be 
scattered.  So  abandoning  future  romance  we 
buckled  down  to  business. 

When  he  had  made  our  arrangements  we  shook 
hands. 

"The  next  time  we  six  meet  together,  it  will  be 
as  the  American  Squad,"  said  Stoner,  and  at  this 
we  shook  hands  again.  Then  as  we  scattered  I  felt 
a  sudden  hollow  in  my  stomach.  Eight-thirty — 
Foster's  dinner  was  at  eight!  I  had  forgotten  it 
completely.  Half  an  hour  late,  I  jumped  into  a 
taxi. 

I  was  bumped  out  at  Margery's  by  a  head-on 
collision  with  another  taxi.  As  I  scrambled  out 
the  two  chauffeurs  opened  fire. 

"Treat  'em  rough,"  I  shouted,  tossing  a  coin 


112  THE  SWALLOW 

to  my  driver  and  wishing  I  could  stay  to  get  my 
money's  worth. 

As  the  door  of  the  enemy  car  gave  way  out  burst 
a  small  woman  in  a  gold-embroidered  evening 
wrap.  Expecting  her  to  cudgel  me  over  the  head 
I  was  about  to  flee  when  a  hand  clutched  my  arm. 
I  looked  down  in  trepidation. 

"Oh,"  said  the  voice  with  the  dash  of  brogue. 
"I'm  glad  you're  late  too.  Mr.  Foster  will  be  so 
cross.  I  just  couldn't  leave  my  boys  earlier  on 
Christmas  Eve !" 

Her  red  upper  lip  caught  at  a  smile  that  was 
trying  to  run  off  and  hide.  I  thought  her  inconse- 
quential acceptance  of  me  delightfully  feminine. 

"We'll  rig  up  a  reason,"  said  I  as  with  my  hand 
under  her  elbow  we  hurried  in.  "You  receive  ur- 
gent letter  from  unknown  woman  imploring  you 
to  save  her  at  eight  o'clock  sharp  to-night.  You 
doll  up  for  dinner  and  drop  around  on  the  way. 
Entering  dark  hovel,  find  Slippery  Sal  the  Sand- 
bag Siren.  Aided  by  Roughneck  Nolly  she  is 
about  to  relieve  you  of  life  and  jewels  when  I, 
Peter  Punchbag,  disguised  as  chauffeur,  rush  in, 
fire  one  thrifty  shot  for  the  two  of  'em — and  here 
we  are  alive  but  hungry !" 

"It's  easy  to  guess  what  high-grade  literature 
you  hid  under  your  geography — oh,  here  comes 


THE  SWALLOW  113 

Mr.  Foster.  How  distinguished  he  looks  in  eve- 
ning dress !" 

He  was  a  striking  figure  with  his  tawny,  leonine 
head  towering  over  the  crowd  and  his  tawny, 
twinkling  eyes,  that  just  now  looked  somewhat  se- 
vere. 

"So  you  two  have  met  already,"  said  he,  pilot- 
ing us -to  a  table  in  the  corner  where  sat  a  hilarious 
group  of  girls  in  dainty  frocks  and  ambulance  men 
in  khaki.  "We  just  this  minute  sat  down — 
thought  we  wouldn't  wait  more  than  half  an  hour 
for  the  guest  of  honour." 

That  started  me  on  an  apology. 

"Hist!"  interrupted  my  companion.  "Don't 
forget  Peter  the  Punchbag  and  Soapsuds  Sal !" 

At  that  Foster  relaxed  and  with  a  laugh  placed 
her  at  his  right. 

"Foot  of  the  class  for  you,  young  man,"  he  said 
to  me. 

I  wished  I  could  have  sat  beside  her.  I  had  so 
much  to  say  to  her.  So,  evidently,  had  Foster. 
Her  head  was  half  the  time  turned  to  him.  Then 
I  could  see  only  her  white  neck  from  which  the  hair 
waved  upwards  black  as  midnight.  Sometimes 
when  Foster,  turning  to  the  little  blonde  on  his 
left,  relinquished  her  for  a  minute,  she  would  look 
around  at  me.  Then  I  discovered  that  everything 


114  THE  SWALLOW 

about  her  was  full  of  nooks  and  crannies.  A  smile 
would  break  up  her  face  into  new  little  niches. 
Her  voice,  a  sparkling,  sunny  voice,  kept  drop- 
ping into  strange  depths  and  coming  up  in  some 
unexpected  bright  spot.  The  laughter  in  her  eyes 
was  always  going  down  behind  shadows,  then  ris- 
ing to  brush  them  aside.  Once  when  Foster 
pledged  "The  Buzzard" — the  old  nickname  of 
which  I  had  told  him  always  amused  him — "and 
his  new  pair  of  wings,"  her  eyes  were  on  me  in 
some  unsmiling  thought  that  chilled  me.  What  was 
she  thinking  about?  Then  as  the  laughter  broke 
from  behind  the  shadows  I  was  suddenly  warmed 
again. 

It  was  a  night  of  triumphant  happiness.  After 
months  in  a  muddy  barrack  how  contenting  was 
all  this  elegance — gleam  of  silver  and  linen  and 
white  shoulders,  brightness  of  holly,  delicious  food 
and  champagne.  Nor  was  I  insensible  to  my  own 
small  notoriety,  especially  in  the  light  of  those 
eyes  with  the  nooks  and  crannies. 

Next  morning  I  was  the  first  one  down.  I  was 
determined  not  to  miss  her.  It  was  not  long  before  I 
saw  the  crisp  little  figure  in  its  crisp  white  uniform. 

"Good  morning  Merry  Christmas  will  you  dine 
with  me  to-night*?"  I  asked  in  one  unpunctuated 
breath. 


THE  SWALLOW  115 

"Good  morning  Merry  Christmas  no  I  won't," 
she  said.  Then  seeing  my  face  she  added,  "You 
see  my  boys  have  been  talking  for  days  about  the 
Christmas  tree  I'm  going  to  give  them  to-night.  I 
really  couldn't  leave,  could  I1?" 

"But  that  will  be  over  early,"  I  insisted.  "We'll 
make  it  nine  o'clock." 

"Two  nights  running^  That's  dissipation." 
She  shook  her  head.  "I  really  mustn't."  Her  face 
brightened.  "But  I  guess  I  will." 

"Hurrah!"  I  said.     "I'll  call  for  you." 

I  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  picking  out  a  se- 
cluded table  in  an  unsecluded  cafe,  composing  a 
menu,  studying  wines,  procuring  poinsettias.  If 
it  took  my  last  penny  I  was  determined  to  have  a 
perfect  setting. 

"Foster's  Christmas  greenery  was  a  life-saver 
this  time,"  I  thought  ferevently. 

Her  pleasure  when  she  saw  the  poinsettias  was 
more  than  reward  for  the  miles  I  had  trudged  to 
find  them. 

"For  a  young  man  whose  earning  capacity  is 
just  a  cent  a  day,  aren't  you  a  bit  extravagant*?" 
she  asked,  surveying  the  table  with  delighted  dis- 
approval. 

"A  few  months  on  the  field  makes  a  fellow  feel 


n6  THE  SWALLOW 

as  if  he'd  earned  a  Christmas  tree,"  I  answered 
with  a  joyous  grin. 

"You  have,  indeed,  poor  darlings,"  she  said 
with  one  of  those  sudden  cloudings  in  her  eyes. 
"Do  you  know,  here  I  sit  eating  dinner  with  you 
— and  such  a  dinner — without  knowing  your 
name?'' 

"I  don't  know  yours  either,"  I  beamed.  The 
situation,  as  well  as  those  echoing  eyes,  conjured 
romance.  "Let's  see  how  long  we  can  keep  'em 
dark  and  have  private  names  for  each  other." 

"That's  easy.  I  tagged  you  the  first  time  I 
saw  you." 

As  I  looked  up  inquiringly  a  verdant  note 
struck  my  sight.  It  was  a  green  frock  in  the  door- 
way. Above  it  shone  the  long  blue  eyes  and  yel- 
low hair  of  my  little  poule. 

"Oh,  pardon — wait  a  minute!"  I  interrupted. 
"I  must  speak  to  that  girl. 

Getting  up  so  suddenly  that  I  spilled  the  wine, 
I  made  my  way  to  the  door.  In  my  new  uniform 
she  did  not  recognise  me  but,  as  I  bade,  followed 
me  to  the  dressing-room.  There  I  produced  the 
gloves  her  Englishman  had  given  her.  I  knew 
enough  French  now  to  present  a  humble  apology 
and  with  it  one  of  Foster's  greenbacks. 

At  sight  of  the  gloves  she  remembered.     At 


THE  SWALLOW  117 

sight  of  the  money  she  forgave.  Gibbering  like 
a  monkey  she  caught  my  hand  and,  to  my  utter 
horror,  kissed  it.  She  even  pressed  upon  me  her 
name  and  address. 

"If  you  ever  need  a  friend,"  she  said.  Indeed 
I  had  some  trouble  in  getting  rid  of  her. 

When  I  sat  down  again,  the  soup  was  steaming, 
the  glasses  were  filled.  Still  brilliant  were  the 
flowers,  the  silver,  the  napery.  Only  my  compan- 
ion had  changed.  Gone  was  the  merry,  tonic 
smile.  She  was  looking  after  the  girl  I  had  just 
left  with  a  speculation  almost  wistful.  Yet  there 
was  nothing  of  petty,  personal  vigilance  in  the 
glance  she  gave  to  this  poor  moth  of  the  street, 
none  of  the  feminine  anger  which  Jasmine  would 
have  felt.  It  was  a  look  so  big  with  thought  of 
others,  so  filled  with  a  sense  of  danger  which  she 
could  not  avert — she  was  thinking  so  pitifully  of 
the  girl,  so  sadly  of  me  .  .  .  Before  this  widened 
spirit  of  hers  my  eyes  fell.  And  afterwards  as 
I  told  her  the  little  story  I  kept  thinking  to  my- 
self, "And  she's  pretty,  too!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

AFTER  that  moment  even  my  lightest  banter 
was  tinged  with  this  sudden  sharp  rever- 
ence. 

"Just  how  young  are  you*?"  she  asked  as  I  fin- 
ished my  story  and  the  smile  which,  always  trying 
to  escape  to  some  nook,  was  caught  and  brought 
back  severely  by  her  mouth. 

"My  public  age  is  twenty- two.  I  lied  to  get 
my  passport.  Just  how  young  are  you?" 

"Twenty-three  is  my  public  age.  I  lied  to  get 
my  passport." 

"You  look  about  eighteen  and  act  about  thirty," 
I  volunteered. 

"It's  not  a  pretty  thing  to  say  to  a  woman,"  I 
heard  her  say. 

"I  mean,"  I  floundered,  glancing  up  to  see  if 
she  were  serious,  "that  you  seem  like  a  born 
mother." 

A  mysterious  little  smile,  not  at  all  motherly, 
came  into  her  eyes.  I  grew  embarrassed. 

118 


THE  SWALLOW  119 

"You  didn't  tell  me  your  name  for  me,"  I  said 
rapidly. 

"The  Swallow,"  she  answered.  Seeing  my  look 
of  uneasy  inquiry  she  added,  "Oh,  it's  all  right. 
You  looked  so  downy  and  unfledged  and  eager, 
with  your  soaring  eyes.  Just  poised  for  high 
flights  somewhere." 

"Downy*?"  I  gave  a  scowl  reminiscent  of  the 
dicky  bird. 

"Ruffled,  now,  if  you  prefer  that,"  she  appeased 
me.  "And  what  are  you  going  to  call  me?" 

"Let  me  think — you  reminded  me  of  the  sea." 

"The  sea!  Gullish — fishy — full  of  craft — or 
what?" 

"No,"  I  said  emphatically,  eyeing  my  plate, 
"Salty,  bracing  and  deep.  You  made  me  feel  as 
if  you'd  been  to  unknown  places,  like  the  sea,  and 
no  man  could  know  where  you'd  go  next.  Smooth 
and  sunny,  but  full  of  storm.  I  like  the  sea.  I 
like  anything  invigorating."  I  said  this  breath- 
lessly, not  daring  to  look  up.  Then  as  it  drew  no 
response  I  drove  it  home.  I  raised  my  eyes  with 
a  boldness  I  did  not  feel.  "I  like  you,  too,"  I 
added. 

She,  too,  was  gazing  steadily  at  her  plate. 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"Because  you  know  men  and  say  the  right 


120  THE  SWALLOW 

thing  and  are  always  just  around  the  corner.  In 
other  words,  because  you're  a  real  woman."  Then 
I  became  heady  with  happiness.  "Why  do  you 
like  me?' 

"Because,"  she  answered  gravely,  "you  don't 
know  anything  about  women  and  say  the  wrong 
thing  and  are  always  this  side  the  corner.  In 
other  words,  because  you're  a  real  man.  Well, 
Swallow,  what  are  you  going  to  call  me?" 

"The  Stormy  Petrel  is  the  best  I  can  think  of." 

"Your  description  sounded  more  like  an  old 
salt.  But  now  tell  me  about  her" 

"Her!" 

"I  must  have  this  to  play  with.  It's  so  satiny." 
She  put  out  a  ruthless  white  hand  and  tore  off 
a  poinsettia  petal.  Then  her  calm  gaze  returned 
to  me.  "Yes,  the  girl  at  home — the  one  you 
brought  me  here  to  talk  about.  You  may  have 
thought  you  brought  me  for  other  reasons  but  you 
didn't." 

Knowing  this  to  be  the  truth  I  ate  my  chicken 
in  stubborn  silence. 

"Begin  farther  back,"  she  commanded  in  tact- 
ful impatience,  tapping  the  stem  of  her  glass  with 
a  gleaming  pink  nail.  "I  must  know  from  the 
beginning.  What  is  your  mother  like1?" 

My  mother!     I  walked  straight  into  the  trap. 


THE  SWALLOW  121 

"My  mother  is  the  bravest  soldier  I  ever  knew." 

Those  words  broke  down  my  feeble  reserve. 
As  she  had  ordered  I  began  at  the  beginning.  Like 
a  dumb  man  suddenly  restored  to  speech  I  talked 
on  and  on.  When  I  had  brought  my  biography 
up  to  date,  when  I  had  told  her  of  the  letter  that 
had  blighted  and  broken  me — then  I  pulled  out 
the  little  photograph. 

"How  awfully  pretty !"  she  exclaimed,  bending 
over  it.  "How  awfully  pretty !" 

"She  sure  is,"  I  agreed,  proud  of  her  praise. 
"It  was  tough  to  be  turned  down  by  a  girl  like 
that,  but  I  haven't  given  up." 

"Turned  down!"  She  erected  two  small 
thumbs.  "You  are  no  more  turned  down  than 
these  are.  Take  my  word  for  it." 

"Do  you  mean  she'll  marry  me*?" 

My  companion  found  a  sudden  interest  in  her 
pastry.  Then  she  asked  quietly,  "When  did  you 
expect  to  marry1?" 

"Why,  when  I  get  through  seeing  life." 

"Ah,  now  you  have  answered  your  own  ques- 
tion," was  her  cryptic  answer.  "But  will  you 
please  look  at  the  time*?  Take  me  home  as  fast 
as  you  can.  I  think  you're  more  of  a  bat  than  a 
swallow." 

"I  can't  seem  to  get  out  of  the  feathered  king- 


122  THE  SWALLOW 

dom,"  said  I,  helping  her  into  her  cloak.  "Started 
life  as  a  dicky  bird,  was  promoted  to  a  buzzard, 
metamorphosed  into  a  swallow " 

"And  now  go  owling  about  Paris  corrupting  the 
habits  of  a  respectable  petrel." 

At  her  door  I  leaned  my  shoulders  against  the 
wall,  prepared  for  an  hour  of  pleasant  farewell. 
This  plan  was  rudely  upset  by  a  small  hand  thrust 
out  at  me.  There  was  finality  in  its  grasp. 

"Thank  you  so  much,  Swallow.  You're  going 
to  write  to  me,"  she  announced  calmly. 

"I  sure  am,"  I  agreed. 

"And  I  shan't  answer." 

"Oh,  you  must !"  I  begged.    "I'll  be  so  lonely." 

"All  of  them  are,  poor  dears."  She  put  her 
head  on  one  side  and  looked  at  me  again  as  if 
she  were  denying  a  child.  "And  I  can't  write  to 
all  of  them." 

"I'm  not  one  of  them"  I  protested.  But  she 
was  gone. 

When  I  got  to  my  own  room  in  Foster's  quar- 
ters I  jerked  out  my  fountain  pen  and  began  to 
write. 

"My  dearest  one "  I  was  beginning  a  let- 
ter to  Jasmine.  Usually  when  I  wrote  to  her  I 
had  to  fight  my  pen  to  hold  it  back.  Now  to  my 
amazement  I  could  not  think  of  a  word  to  say. 


THE  SWALLOW  123 

"Your   picture    came    on    Christmas    Eve " 

Finally  I  accomplished  this  much.  Well,  well, 
what  then"?  I  commenced  making  little  geo- 
metrical figures  around  the  edges  of  my  paper.  At 
last  I  took  her  picture  from  my  pocket  and  set  it 
up  on  the  table  in  front  of  me.  I  looked  at  it 
studiously,  conscientiously  .  .  .  "You  looked  so 
downy  and  unfledged  and  eager"  .  .  .  Merry 
blue  eyes  came  between  me  and  the  picture  and 
I  was  smiling  imbecilely  in  reply.  The  smile 
died  down  as  another  look  interposed  between  me 
and  the  picture — a  look  so  filled  with  sadness  over 
dangers  not  her  own,  a  look  so  wistfully  protect- 
ing that  I  thrilled  again  with  the  memory. 

Suddenly  then  I  jumped  to  my  feet.  In  be- 
wilderment that  was  almost  grotesque  I  stared  at 
myself  in  the  mirror. 

"Well,  of  all-^— "  I  said,  dumfounded. 
*  *  * 

Laon  was  near  enough  the  Alps  for  us  to  taste 
the  mountain  cold.  The  camp  was  new.  We 
walked  to  our  knees  in  mud.  Water  stood  deep 
under  the  barracks.  As  we  had  no  stoves  and 
only  one  blanket,  we  slept  in  our  overcoats. 

Since  there  were  not  enough  chasse  machines 
to  go  around  I  was  assigned  to  a  voisin.  After 
flying  a  monoplane,  the  big,  unwieldy  biplane 


124  THE  SWALLOW 

seemed  an  indignity.  I  had,  too,  to  fly  the  Cap- 
roni,  an  immense  Italian  machine  with  three  mo- 
tors of  one  hundred  and  fifty  horse-power,  capable 
of  carrying  five  men. 

The  type  of  machine  we  used  at  this  time  had 
the  habit  of  catching  fire.  Quite  a  number  of 
the  fellows  were  burned.  Every  time  one  of  our 
men  met  this  most  horrible  of  all  deaths,  the 
whole  school  attended  the  funeral.  It  became  a 
weekly  experience — that  horrified,  blackened 
thing  leaping  from  the  falling  monster  of  fire; 
the  procession  of  bluecoated  comrades;  the  bare- 
headed villagers,  crossing  themselves;  the  service 
in  the  old  cathedral,  heavy  with  incense,  misty 
with  the  light  of  tapers. 

Although  I  did  not  have  to  follow  the  line  of 
training  prescribed  at  Pau  I  put  in  many  hours  of 
drudgery  before  my  apprenticeship  was  consid- 
ered sufficient;  for  it  was  drudgery  to  fly  those 
heavy  bombarding  machines.  But  when  I  could 
reach  a  height  of  fourteen  hundred  yards  and  up, 
there  I  found  reward.  They  would  fall  farther 
and  farther  away — the  buttressed  hill  above  the 
little  plain,  steep  vineyards,  turreted  palace  and 
Gothic  cloister  and  tfye  old  cathedral  towered  like 
a  fortress — until  they  were  nothing  but  a  doll's 
establishment.  Then  like  one  blunt  spear-end 


THE  SWALLOW  125 

in  a  row  of  dagger  points,  Mont  Blanc  would 
rise  among  her  clustering  peaks.  I  could  see  a 
blue  patch  that  was  Lake  Geneva.  I  could  see 
the  whole  valley  of  the  Rhone — a  gossamer  veil 
threaded  by  one  silver  cord  that  frayed  out  into 
tiny  strands  of  silver.  Again  I  had  reached  the 
sun-sluiced  peaks  of  Romance ! 

During  these  busy  days  I  had  thought  inces- 
santly of  my  next  visit  to  Paris.  I  wanted  to  tell 
that  girl  at  the  Ambulance  everything  that  had 
happened  since  I  saw  her.  I  liked  to  remember 
the  clever  things  I  had  said  and  to  construct  more 
scintillating  dialogue.  With  that  trip  in  view  I 
was  cultivating  a  moustache.  This  ornament  was 
so  white  at  first  that  the  boys  named  it  Mont 
Blanc.  "Maybe  it  will  turn  red  or  some  other 
pretty  colour,"  they  encouraged  me.  Darkening 
with  age  and  weather  it  finally  became  a  rusty 
black  like  old  mourning.  I  was  more  than  pleased 
with  it.  And  just  in  time  it  turned.  For  I  was 
transferred  to  the  military  field  that  protects  Paris 
from  night  raids.  Now  I  should  see  her  often ! 

I  reached  Paris  early  in  the  morning.  Bathed, 
polished,  with  Mont  Blanc  neatly  trimmed,  I 
presented  myself  at  the  Ambulance. 

The  first  person  I  saw  was  herself.  She  was 
bending  over  some  charts  on  her  office  desk. 


126  THE  SWALLOW 

"Good  morning,"  I  said  optimistically;  "you're 
dining  with  me  to-night." 

The  springy  little  white  figure  straightened. 

"Oh !    How  do  you  do?    I  wish  I  could." 

She  gave  me  her  left  hand  and  a  hurried  smile 
while  with  her  right  hand  she  jotted  down  some- 
thing on  a  slip  of  paper.  She  did  not  even  no- 
tice Mont  Blanc.  I  was  alarmed.  Then  I  re- 
membered her  weakness. 

"This  is  my  only  night  in  town,"  I  said  artfully. 
"There's  no  telling  when  I'll  see  a  woman  again." 

"But  I'm  not  the  only  woman  in  Paris,  you 
know,"  said  she,  still  writing.  "You'll  have  to 
take  some  of  the  other  girls  to-night." 

Had  she  dropped  a  bomb  on  me  I  could  not 
have  been  more  unpleasantly  surprised. 

"But,"  I  insisted,  "there  was  something  I 
wanted  to  ask  you — something — very  private." 

"Ask  it  now,"  she  said  briskly,  bending  over 
another  chart." 

She  could  make  me  so  happy  and  she  wouldn't! 
Even  her  motherliness  was  gone.  I  suddenly  be- 
gan to  hate  her.  I  hated  her  crisp  morning  mood, 
her  crisp,  clear  eyes,  her  crisp  white  skirt.  I 
could  have  bitten  my  tongue  out  for  dragging  in 
an  unwelcome  personal  note.  But  if  I  died  for 
it  I  would  finish. 


THE  SWALLOW  127 

"I  wanted  to  know  how  you  happened  to  be  in 
Dublin,"  I  said,  very  fast,  "and  why  you  looked 
at  me  as  you  did." 

"Oh,  that's  it*?"  She  wrote  a  few  words. 
"Why,  you  see" — she  paused  abstractedly  to 
fill  in  another  line — "I  was  on  leave  before  com- 
ing over  here.  So  I  went  home  to  Ireland  to  see 
my  brother  who  had  been  wounded.  That's  how 
it  was." 

Once  more  she  was  lost  in  a  chart. 

If  I  had  asked  a  Wall  Street  broker  on  Mon- 
day morning  to  discuss  Mrs.  Browning's  love  son- 
nets, I  could  not  have  felt  more  calfish.  But  I 
meant  to  see  it  through. 

"And  the  rest*?"     I  set  my  teeth. 

"Why — petrels  have  some  points  in  common 
with  swallows.  Perhaps  I  clapped  my  beak  in 
the  masonic  high-sign  of  birds.  There  was  an- 
other reason  I  stared  but  I  shan't  tell  that.  You 
wouldn't  like  it.  Nou?' — gathering  up  her 
papers  she  shook  them  into  shape — "I  must  run. 
Come  in  and  say  good-bye  before  you  go,  won't 
you?' 

"Yes,"  I  murmured,  moistening  my  lips. 

"Be  sure,"  she  called,  with  a  fleet  smile  over 
her  shoulder. 


128  THE  SWALLOW 

I  stumbled  blindly  into  Foster's  empty  office 
and  began  to  kick  the  furniture. 

"Fool!  Dolt!  Ass!"  I  groaned,  punctuating 
each  word  with  a  kick.  "Poor  prune!  Poor 
prune !" 

I  had  been  on  a  -two  month's  jag  of  egotism. 
The  hang-over  was  a  bad  one.     My  brilliancy 
that  I  had  recalled  with  complacency  came  back 
now  in  a  duller  light. 
i     "I  like  you — why  do  you  like  me?     You  act 

about  thirty "  Had  I  really  said  those  things 

or  was  it  a  bad  dream?  And  this  morning,  in 
the  face  of  that  cool,  business-like  greeting,  I 
had  snivelled  sentimentally!  I  was  burning  up 
with  shame  for  myself  and  rage  at  her  crisp  self- 
sufficiency.  She  had  put  me  in  my  place.  Well, 
I  would  stay  put.  I  would  not  go  to  say  good- 
bye. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me,  anyway,  that  I 
get  stung  every  time*?"  I  wondered. 

Jumping  up,  I  looked  in  a  mirror.  I  tried  to 
look  impersonally. 

Five  feet  eleven — not  a  giant,  but  not  a  dwarf; 
and  I  had  always  been  proud  of  my  shoulders. 
Muscles  like  steel  springs,  veins  bubbling  with 
vigorous  blood,  teeth  sound  and  white,  skin 
ruddy,  eyes  clear,  hair  on  the  jump  but  plenty  of 


THE  SWALLOW  129 

it — not  bald,  at  any  rate — and  Mont  Blanc  sprout- 
ing lustily. 

I  turned  from  this  inventory  to  meet  Foster's 
laughing  eye.  But  I  was  beyond  caring. 

"Foster,"  I  began  wildly,  "do  you  consider  me 
peculiarly  repulsive  to  women*?" 

"You're  crazy  with  the  heat,"  said  Foster  calm- 
ly. "When  did  you  come  to  town*?" 

"No,  I'm  not.  I  get  on  great  with  men  but 
women !" 

"Look  here,"  said  Foster  earnestly,  sitting 
down,  "if  you're  still  worrying  about  Myrtie  or 
Migonette  or  Heliotrope  or  whatever  her  name 
was — forget  it.  There's  plenty  more  fish  in  the 
sea — I've  seen  them  flap  their  fins  at  you.  There's 
just  one  thing  about  women — you  have  to  knock 
'em  on  the  head.  A  touch  of  cave-man  stuff  does 
the  work,  my  boy.  They  eat  it  up.  And  never 
let  a  woman  know  she's  hooked  you.  Keep  it 
dark,  keep  it  dark." 

My  mind  flew  back  to  Shorty's  prescription  for 
spraying  the  little  red  mule's  nose:  "Rope  her 
head — you  gotta  treat  her  as  if  she  was  a  woman 
— rope  her  head !" 

Without  a  word  of  excuse  to  Foster  I  tore  out. 
All  day  I  walked  madly.  "Keep  it  dark — knock 
'em  on  the  head."  I  repeated  his  words  as  if  they 


130  THE  SWALLOW 

were  a  ritual.  "Cave-man  stuff  is  what  I  hand 
out  from  now  on.  And  I'll  not  go  back  to  say 
good-bye." 

At  nine  o'clock  that  night  I  found  myself,  for 
some  reason  unknown  to  myself,  pacing  up  and 
down  in  front  of  her  office.  "And  I'll  not  go 
in  to  say  good-bye,"  I  was  murmuring.  Mouth 
dry,  eyballs  burning,  pulse  hopping — I  was  in 
best  cave-man  condition. 

A  door  opened.    A  hand  clutched  my  arm. 

"You're  an  answer  to  prayer,  Swallow!  I 
haven't  had  a  bite  since  breakfast — wait,  wait!" 

I  was  dashing  out  for  a  taxi. 

"You  must  get  me  back  by  midnight.  Promise 
not  to  fascinate  me  with  tales  of  your  misspent 
life  till  I  forget  to  come  home?" 

"Keep  it  dark — knock  'em  on  the  head,"  whis- 
pered the  cave-man. 

"I  promise — anything,"  I  said. 

Leaning  back  in  the  car  she  closed  her  eyes. 
She  was  white  and  below  her  lashes  were  heavy 
shadows. 

"You  can't  imagine,"  she  said,  lifting  those 
lashes  just  enough  to  intoxicate  me,  "what  heaven 
it  is  to  have  a  man  take  care  of  you  after  taking 
care  of  men  all  day." 


THE  SWALLOW  131 

"Keep  it  dark — knock  'em  on  the  head," 
prompted  the  cave-man. 

"It's  heaven — for  me,"  I  said. 

Then  speechless  with  gratitude  for  her  pres- 
ence I  sat  until  we  reached  the  cafe  where  we  had 
been  before.  If  I  could  only  get  our  old  table — 
that  was  the  one  important  thing  in  life.  Fever- 
ishly I  besought  the  head  waiter  for  it,  and  got  it. 

"Oh,  how  nice  to  be  here  again !"  she  exclaimed. 

She  had  remembered! 

"Yes,  please,  something  hot.  Spinach  soup  will 
be  lovely.  How  that  wine  does  revive  one!" 

There  was  a  wine  in  my  veins  more  potent  than 
the  life-blood  of  grapes.  Wordless  with  content- 
ment I  watched  the  -glow  come  back  to  her  eyes. 

"Isn't  it  lucky  you  hadn't  dined*?"  she  ob- 
served, dipping  a  spoon  into  the  steaming  soup. 
"Why  hadn't  you,  by  the  way?" 

"Keep  it  dark — knock  'em  on  the  head,"  urged 
the  cave-man. 

"I  couldn't  eat,"  I  said. 

"Why  not"?"  Her  spoon  was  poised  half-way 
to  her  mouth.  Professional  anxiety  was  in  her 
tone. 

"Keep  it  dark — knock  'em  on  the  head,"  plead- 
ed the  cave-man. 

"Because  I  thought  you  didn't  like  me  this 


132  THE  SWALLOW 

morning,"  was  what  I  said.  I  was  horrified  to 
hear  a  quaver  in  my  voice. 

"My  dear — Swallow" — she  dropped  her 
spoon — "you're  not — why,  I  had  enough  work 
to-day  to  turn  seven  saints  into  seven  wild-cats 
-^-you're  not " 

She  looked  at  me  helplessly. 

"Yes,  I  am."  Giving  the  cave-man  a  vigorous 
kick  in  the  face  I  went  desperately  on.  "I  love 
you — everything  about  you : 

My  voice  broke. 

"And  you  sat  here  not  two  months  ago  telling 
me — at  this  very  table" — she  tapped  it  with 
her  little  white  hand — "that  you  would  always 
love  another  girl !  Blessed  boy,  where's  your  sense 
of  humour*?" 

"But  that  wasn't " 

"Don't!"  She  laid  her  hand  on  mine.  It 
was  strong  and  mothering,  not  frail  like  Jas- 
mine's. "Don't  say  that  wasn't  real  love." 

"Do  they  all  say  that1?" 

"Invariably." 

"And  does  every  man  you  meet  tell  you  that 
he  loves  you?" 

This  seemed  to  me  the  obvious  course  for  any 
man. 


THE  SWALLOW  133 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  she  said,  horrified.  "But  you 
see,  they  aren't  responsible,  poor  dears." 

"And  don't  you  want  me  to  love  you?"  I  asked, 
jealous  of  that  plural. 

"It  wouldn't  be  fair  if  I  did.  You  come  in 
from  the  camp  crazy  to  tell  the  first  woman  you 
meet  about  your  girl.  It's  a  glamorous  subject 
and  for  the  moment  you  think  you're  in  love  with 
the  woman  who  listens  to  you.  As  soon  as  you're 
gone  you  know  you  weren't.  You  simply  loved 
to  talk  to  some  one  about  love.  That's  what  I 
mean  when  I  say  you're  not  responsible." 

I  thought  hard.     Then  I  said  ponderously: 

"If  this  is  the  regular  procedure,  why  did  you 
make  me  talk  about  my  girl?" 

For  one  startled  second  her  eyes  met  mine. 
Then  she  laughed,  that  tonic  laugh  that  I  had  not 
heard  since  Christmas  night. 

"Take  me  home,"  was  her  answer,  "before 
you  learn  so  fast  that  I  can't  like  you  any  more 
for  not  understanding  women." 

This  speech  contained  dizzy  possibilities.  I 
fed  on  it  in  the  days  to  come.  It  was  the  most 

precious  thing  that  I  carried  to  camp. 

*  #  * 

In  the  new  field  I  was  given  a  big  voisin  with 
an  inch  cannon  that  fired  a  shell  three  thousand 


134  THE  SWALLOW 

yards.  We  kept  four  machines  over  Paris.  Each 
of  us  had  to  stay  up  two  hours  and  a  half  every 
day  at  a  height  of  six  or  ten  thousand  feet.  It 
was  disappointing  but  I  never  saw  a  Zeppelin.  I 
never  saw  an  airplane  other  than  our  own.  I  saw 
nothing  but  the  domes  and  streets  and  trees  of 
Paris  all  flattened  down  to  the  size  of  the  Noah's 
Ark  I  had  played  with  as  a  baby.  Beyond  the 
city  I  could  see  the  fortifications;  beyond  those, 
the  dim  line  of  trenches.  And  never  once  did  I 
fly  over  Paris  but  I  tried  to  pick  out  the  roof  that 
covered  her  who  was  always  in  my  thoughts.  She 
was  wrong,  she  was  wrong!  I  had  never  really 
loved  any  but  her.  Some  day  I  was  going  to  make 
her  believe  it.  And  as  I  flew  there  so  near  her  I 
was  always  rehearsing  just  how  I  would  make 
her  believe. 

Soon  I  was  put  on  the  night  patrol.  The  first 
night  I  was  as  high-strung  as  a  race-horse.  My 
nerves  were  snapping.  It  was  the  most  intense 
moment  of  my  life.  With  red  and  green  lights 
tipping  my  wings  I  began  to  climb.  I  had  no 
idea  if  I  should  ever  come  back.  I  could  see  the 
lights  of  Paris  and  sometimes  a  village  road.  I 
could  tell  the  different  aviation  fields  by  the  num- 
ber of  flashes  they  sent  up.  But  suppose  there 
should  be  a  raid  and  all  lights  should  be  extin- 


THE  SWALLOW  135 

guished?  Then  I  could  only  feel  about  through 
the  darkness  and  pray  that  my  motor  would  not 
fail  me. 

There  was  no  raid.  There  was  nothing  worse 
than  a  cooling  spark-plug  that  sent  me  limping 
home.  Five  times  did  the  machine  break  on 
those  night  patrols.  Five  times  I  hobbled  back, 
grazing  the  tree-tops  as  I  came  down.  I  could 
have  landed  in  Paris ;  but  I  always  took  pride  in 
getting  back  to  the  field. 

My  nerves  grew  tougher  under  the  tension. 
But  I  never  grew  used  to  the  loneliness — a  lone- 
liness that  clamoured,  a  stillness  that  throbbed. 
Was  she  ever  lonely,  down  there  in  the  hospital? 

Was  she  asleep,  or  out  with  some  one  luckier 
than  Is?  Did  she  think  of  me  ever?  I  was  tied 
to  field  duty,  but  in  fancy  I  was  by  her  side. 

All  this  time  plans  were  going  ahead  for  the 
American  Squad.  Our  captain,  like  so  many 
Frenchmen,  was  infatuated  with  America.  When 
he  learned  of  our  intent  he  was  determined  to 
lead  us.  Because  of  my  nationality  then  he  took 
a  special  interest  in  me  and  went  to  great  trouble 
to  be  pleasant  to  me.  We  exchanged  French  and 
English  lessons.  I  grew  to  enjoy  his  grace  of 
nature  as  much  as  I  admired  his  rockribbed  no- 
bility. Indeed  we  became  the  warmest  friends. 


136  THE  SWALLOW 

Once  when  his  fiancee  came  out  to  visit  him  he 
asked  me  to  dine  with  them.  They  frankly  adored 
each  other. 

The  captain  had  been  flying  a  heavy  machine. 
But  to  fit  himself  for  leading  the  Americans  he 
began  to  practice  on  the  chasse.  One  day  I 
watched  him  fly  off  in  a  little  scout.  He  had  not 
gone  five  hundred  yards  before  he  lost  control, 
dropped  into  a  spinning  nose  and  crashed  to  earth. 

Aroused  by  my  cries  nearly  the  whole  camp  ran 
to  him.  When  I  reached  him  some  soldiers  at  work 
on  a  hill  had  pulled  him  out  of  the  machine.  He 
was  lying  with  his  head  on  a  little  mound  of  hay. 
With  one  hand  at  his  wrist  I  tore  open  his  shirt. 
I  put  my  other  hand  at  his  heart.  There  was  no 
life  there.  He  gasped.  The  pulse  in  his  neck 
gave  one  beat.  He  moved  in  my  arms  and  died. 
I  could  not  keep  back  the  tears. 

Then  something  happened  which  ever  since  has 
depressed  me.  The  soldiers  were  kneeling  with 
us  at  his  side.  One  of  them  asked  a  comrade  who 
had  been  a  priest  before  the  war  to  offer  a  prayer. 
"Is  he  a  Christian'?"  the  priest  asked  me.  "Oui," 
I  said.  "Bien,"  he  returned,  and  prayed. 

Had  my  captain  been  a  thief  Christ  would  have 
blessed  him.  But  he  was  a  clean,  upright  man, 
who  had  given  his  life  of  love  and  splendid  ac- 


THE  SWALLOW  137 

tivity  for  a  just  cause.  And  this  pitiful,  small- 
souled  priest  must  inquire  his  creed  before  giving 
his  benediction. 

A  month  after  the  captain's  death  the  squad 
that  he  had  hoped  to  lead  was  born.  I  received 
orders  to  report  at  the  large  depot  of  aviation  in 
Belleville. 

My  precious  last  night  in  Paris  could  be  spent 
in  just  one  place,  illumined  by  one  presence.  At 
our  secluded  table  in  the  unsecluded  cafe  I  sat 
flooded  with  the  sure  happiness  that  her  nearness 
gave. 

"I'm  in  earnest,"  I  began. 

"I'm  not,"  she  answered,  a  smile  breaking  her 
face  up  into  little  nooks. 

"Won't  you  stop  laughing  long  enough  to  tell 
me  you  know  I  love  you*?"  I  begged.  I  wanted 
from  her  own  lips  the  assurance  that  my  own 
were  always  hungering  to  give. 

"For  one  minute  I  will  be  serious  if  you  will 
frivol  the  rest  of  the  evening.  Agreed*?"  She 
help  up  a  firm  finger.  "Well,  then,  there 
is  only  one  way  to  know  when  love  is  real.  That 
is  when  it  can  stand  realities." 

"What  are  realities'?"  I  asked,  ready  to  drag 
them  in  by  the  hair  of  their  heads. 

"One  is  time.    One  is  sacrifice.    There  are  mo- 


138  THE  SWALLOW 

ments,  too,  of  suffering  and  danger  that  illuminate 
the  heart,  that  make  you  know  if  you  can  bear 
delay  and  denial.  And  sometimes  I  think  the 
greatest  tests  of  all  are  success  and  happiness. 
Perhaps  it's  a  greater  tribute  to  need  love  when 
you're  up  than  it  is  when  you're  down.  Now, 
Swallow,  time's  up.  Flap  your  wings  and  be 
merry!" 

It  was  when  I  was  leaving  that  I  said  quite 
suddenly : 

"If  I'm  wounded  will  you  save  me  a  bed  in 
your  ward?" 

Just  as  her  smile  had  done  when  Foster  had 
pledged  my  new  pair  of  wings,  her  bright  voice 
took  one  of  those  sudden  drops  into  a  strange, 
dark  place.  The  eyes  she  lifted  to  mine  held 
something  I  had  never  seen  there  before.  Was 
it  terror1? 

"Swallow,"  she  said,  "dear,  unfledged  Swal- 
low, God  grant  I  may  never  have  the  chance." 

For  a  moment  her  look  lingered  in  mine.  I 
put  out  my  hands  to  touch  her.  But  she  was 
gone. 

After  learning  the  little  Nieuport  at  the  depot 
I  was  sent  to  join  the  American  Squad  at  Bar- 
le-Duc.  At  the  town  I  was  met  by  some  of  the 
older  men.  In  our  own  motor  they  drove  me  to 


THE  SWALLOW  139 

the  field.  There  I  found  my  own  little  Nieuport, 
our  own  mechanicians,  rest  tents,  messengers, 
chauffeurs  and  a  small  army  of  other  employees 
for  our  special  edification.  Halfway  between 
the  field  and  town  was  our  villa  with  baths,  con- 
servatories, a  grand  piano,  comfortable  beds,  and 
several  cars.  Nothing  was  too  good  for  the  Amer- 
icans who  had  enlisted  for  France.  Except  when 
on  guard,  our  time  was  our  own.  I  thought  ex- 
ultantly now  of  that  walk  to  Pau  with  a  knap- 
sack that  rubbed  my  back  and  boots  that  blis- 
tered my  feet.  I  contrasted  that  muddy,  barren 
barrack  with  this  princely  comfort,  those  rigid 
rules  with  this  elastic  life.  I  was  no  longer  a 
school-boy.  I  was  a  warrior! 

The  men  I  found  here  were  as  satisfying  as  the 
quarters — the  finest  brand  of  young  Americans, 
I  think,  with  the  aviator  blend  of  delicacy  and 
daring. 

Each  of  the  squad  had  some  special  insignia  for 
his  machine.  A  member  of  the  Hotfoot  Club  of 
Virginia  had  a  printed  foot,  another  an  Indian 
head.  Some  used  their  own  initials.  With  a 
remorseful  thought  for  Jasmine  back  in  Texas 
I  painted  on  one  side  of  my  machine  a  huge  star. 
On  the  other  side  less  conspicuously  I  painted  a 
tiny  swallow. 


140  THE  SWALLOW 

Falling  back  to  admire  my  creations  I  plumped 
smartly  against  another  chap  who,  brush  in  hand, 
had  stepped  back  for  the  same  purpose.  Looking 
around  at  the  clap  of  meeting  spines  he  saw  my 
insignia. 

"What'd  you  plagarise  my  planet  for?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"I  didn't  plagarise  your  planet,"  I  protested. 

"You  did,"  and  he  pointed  to  his  own. 

"Hey,"  called  a  third  voice,  "You  two  have  a 
crust — coming  out  as  the  star  of  the  squad !  You'd 
better  prove  it  first." 

"Mine's  the  Lone  Star  of  Texas,"  we  chorused 
in  unison.  And  finding  we  were  fellow  statemen 
we  shook  hands  amicably. 

My  first  flight  over  the  lines  was  made  under 
the  wing  of  Dover  Manley.  Patrolling  Dead 
Man's  Hill,  we  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  machines 
bearing  the  black  cross  of  Germany.  As  we  found 
none  we  flew  about  awhile  to  watch  the  battle. 
It  was  the  siege  of  Verdun  and  I  had  expected  to 
see  fierce  fighting  and  hear  the  tremendous  noise 
of  war.  I  could  hear  nothing  but  the  roar  of  my 
own  motor.  I  could  see  nothing  but  a  dishevelled 
strip  of  earth  ploughed  with  mine  craters.  Back 
of  the  lines  I  did  see  something:  on  one  side  a 
little  streak  as  if  some  one  had  scratched  a  match 


THE  SWALLOW  141 

on  the  ground ;  on  the  other,  little  puffs  of  smoke 
like  the  dust  from  puff-balls.  And  that  was  all 
there  was  to  the  great  battle  of  Verdun. 

For  some  time  my  only  taste  of  war  was  when 
I  would  drop  into  an  immense  hole  in  the  air  left 
by  one  of  the  big  shells.  And  I  was  pining  for 
a  sight  of  the  enemy.  It  came  suddenly.  A  bomb 
burst  just  behind  our  hangar.  The  noise  sickened 
me.  I  did  not  know  what  it  was. 

"A  Boche,  a  Boche !"  cried  the  boys. 

Looking  up  *  saw  a  bony  white  thing  in  the 
air,  like  the  skeleton  of  a  fish.  It  was  a  German 
machine ! 

My  own  machine  was  broken,  but  before  I 
even  thought  of  that,  three  of  the  chaps  were  up. 
A  bomb  dropped  near  me.  My  stomach  caved 
in.  Another  bomb  burst  and  another.  Then  a 
whistle  blew.  I  began  to  run.  Seeing  a  lot  of 
workmen  running,  I  joined  them.  I  didn't  know 
where  they  were  going.  I  only  knew  I  must  get 
away  from  that  noise. 

Leaping  over  the  ground,  head  down,  I  dove 
straight  into  the  stomach  of  an  officer. 

"Where  are  you  going1?"  he  asked  calmly. 

I  stopped  and  looked  at  him.  War  was  here ! 
The  dream  of  my  life  was  realised !  And  I,  poor 


142  THE  SWALLOW 

poltroon,  was  running  away!  Turning,  I  went 
with  the  officer  to  the  town. 

We  counted  over  our  heads  fifteen  machines. 

Bar-le-Duc  was  in  a  valley.  The  railroad  sta- 
tion was  along  the  canal.  Our  field  was  on  a 
plateau.  Both  field  and  station  were  easily  seen 
from  the  air.  Passing  the  station  by  entirely, 
dropping  a  few  shells  over  the  field  by  way  of 
pastime,  the  Germans  deliberately  bombed  the 
town — bombed  peaceful  old  men  and  women  and 
children. 

The  invasion  of  Belgium  was  evidence  enough 
that  Germany  had  no  more  sense  of  civilisation 
than  a  savage.  I  had  heard  first-hand  a  hundred 
instances  of  barbarous  treachery.  I  knew  the 
English  doctor  who  had  responded  to  the  call  of 
a  wounded  German  on  the  field  and  who  after 
caring  for  the  man  as  if  he  were  one  of  his  own 
countrymen,  was  shot  in  the  back  by  his  patient. 
I  knew  a  dozen  more  men  who  themselves  had  ex- 
perienced the  brutal  breaking  of  every  war  con- 
dition to  which  Germany  had  pledged  itself.  But 
not  till  my  own  eyes  saw  these  crumpled  homes 
of  innocent  civilians,  women  without  faces,  old 
men  without  arms  and  legs,  babies  without 
mothers — not  till  now  did  I  know  why  I  was  fight ' 


THE  SWALLOW  143 

ing.  My  adventure  was  now  an  adventure  of 
purpose. 

Next  day  my  machine  was  in  order  so  that  I  was 
able  to  fly  with  the  others.  It  was  much  less  ter- 
rifying to  be  in  the  air  firing  a  machine  gun  than 
to  stand  on  the  earth  below,  where  all  effort  was 
absolutely  useless.  It  made  me  realise  more  poig- 
nantly the  outrage  against  those  old  men  and 
women. 

Our  boys  did  what  they  could  but  the  Germans 
had  the  advantage.  In  the  air  one  must  work 
on  three  dimensions  instead  of  two :  width,  breadth 
and  height.  Distances,  of  course,  are  enormous. 
If  a  German  is  five  or  six  hundred  yards  away  and 
happens  to  have  a  speedy  machine,  a  gun  is  use- 
less. The  point  of  vantage  is  from  above  with 
the  sun  at  your  back  so  if  the  enemy  looks  in  your 
direction  he  can  not  see  you.  The  Germans  now, 
of  course,  could  climb  high  and  we  were  at  a  dis- 
advantage. 

Day  after  day  they  bombed  us.  Just  as  we  would 
settle  down  to  a  noon  beefsteak,  would  come  the 
cry:  "Les  Boches!"  Out  we  would  run.  "My 
trousseau,  Antoinette!"  I  would  call  to  Anton, 
my  mechanician.  Then  not  waiting  for  it  I  would 
cram  down  my  cap,  jump  in  the  car,  shout  "Con- 
tact!" and  fly  off.  Four  times  a  day  I  would  go 


144  THE  SWALLOW 

to  a  height  of  five  thousand  yards.  It  was  a  ter- 
rific strain  and  useless.  Not  till  they  had  bom- 
barded us  a  week  did  I  get  from  my  machine  a 
glimpse  of  the  enemy. 

That  day,  just  as  I  left  the  ground,  I  saw 
twelve  German  machines,  all  from  two  to  three 
thousand  metres  up.  Setting  my  machine  at  a 
tangent,  I  started  climbing.  Around  and  around 
under  the  Germans  I  circled.  Looking  down  at 
the  town,  I  saw  little  brown  puffs  of  smoke  from 
the  German  bombs.  Looking  up  at  the  Germans 
I  saw  little  puffs  of  white  smoke  from  the  French 
shells. 

I  was  halfway  between  the  two.  It  seemed 
safer  to  get  close  up  under  the  Germans;  so  I 
started  climbing.  By  the  time  I  reached  their 
height  they  had  all  disappeared  except  one  little 
scout.  I  was  right  in  under  him.  I  went  on 
climbing.  So  did  the  scout.  The  faster  I  climbed 
the  faster  he  climbed.  Try  as  I  would  I  could  not 
get  ahead  of  him. 

"Pt !"    He  was  firing  at  me. 

Dropping  my  machine  down  into  a  reloading 
position,  I  fired  back. 

"Pt!"  answered  he. 

"Pt!"  rejoined  I. 

"Pt,  pt,  pt !"  he  sputtered. 


THE  SWALLOW  145 

"Pt,  pt,  pt  yourself,"  I  retorted. 

This  last  word  came  high.  I  had  spent  my  last 
cartridge!  If  he  fired  again  and  I  did  not  an- 
swer he  would  know  he  had  me.  But  happily 
he  disappeared  behind  the  German  lines  and  I 
scudded  back  to  the  field.  That  was  the  last  day 
of  the  bombardment. 

I  liked  best  my  flights  with  Dover  Manley.  I 
had  for  him  the  admiration  of  a  cub  for  a  master 
flier  and  the  admiration  of  every  one  who  knew 
him  for  a  high-hearted  soldier.  In  an  older 
brother  way  Dover  took  great  pains  with  me — 
trimmed  me  off,  watered  me  down,  patted  me  into 
shape. 

His  only  fault  as  an  aviator  was  an  excess  of 
bravery.  He  never  left  a  German  until  he  was 
sure  he  had  driven  him  out  of  control.  He  used 
to  come  back  with  bullet  holes  in  his  sleeve  or 
his  shoe.  His  machine,  with  the  fifty  odd  patches 
where  it  had  been  struck,  looked  like  a  crazy- 
quilt.  Once,  absorbed  in  a  fight  with  a  German, 
he  failed  to  observe  a  Fokker  over  him  till  the 
pilot  dove  on  him,  caught  him  in  his  line  of  fire, 
riddled  his  machine,  broke  the  main  control,  cut 
through  his  head-guard  and  opened  up  his  scalp. 
Catching  hold  of  the  two  broken  ends  of  the  con- 
trol, Dover  flew  home.  His  wounds  were  dressed 


146  THE  SWALLOW 

without  his  going  to  a  hospital.  His  machine 
was  repaired  immediately.  And  the  next  day 
Dover  was  back  on  the  German  lines. 

One  day  we  had  started  out  together  when  in- 
distinctly through  the  mist  I  saw  a  German.  Mak- 
ing a  short  turn  I  dove  on  him,  but  before  I  could 
reach  him  Dover  was  on  his  tail.  Hoping  to 
help  Dover  I  tried  to  follow  them.  I  lost  sight 
of  them  both,  but  every  time  I  heard  Dover's  mil- 
trailleuse,  I  went  after  it.  Soon  the  popping 
ceased.  Through  the  silence  and  the  mist  I  flew 
about  trying  to  locate  Dover.  Suddenly  I  saw 
him  peering  at  me  from  a  cloud.  We  flew  home 
together.  When  we  landed  Dover  told  me  that 
he  had  gone  down  on  his  nose  out  of  control  and 
had  lost  his  man. 

"And  I  want  to  tell  you,  kid,  you're  the  real 
stuff,"  he  said,  stripping  off  his  Teddy-bear  gar- 
ments. "When  a  fellow  hears  something  that  he 
thinks  is  a  Boche  and  finds  a  friend  instead,  it's 
a  happy  surprise  party." 

Another  morning  about  four  o'clock  on  patrol, 
my  machine  balked.  As  the  fellows  were  several 
hundred  yards  above  me,  I  could  not  reach  theii 
altitude.  Suddenly  my  tail  went  up.  I  sat  down 
hard  in  a  hollow  of  air.  Then  beside  me  I  heard 
a  big  "Chou !"  I  could  see  nothing.  It  was  like 


THE  SWALLOW  147 

a  giant  spitting  out  of  invisibility.  In  a  second 
I  heard  another  "Chou!"  This  time  I  saw  be- 
side me  a  puff  of  grey  smoke.  The  German  anti- 
aircraft guns  were  after  me !  Now  the  shells  were 
all  around  me.  One  nipped  off  a  wing.  Another 
smashed  the  mirror  in  front  of  me. 

"It's  up  and  out  of  this  for  you,  quick,  my  boy," 
I  thought.  As  fast  as  I  could  I  veered  off  to  the 
left.  Coming  out  of  its  early  morning  grouch  just 
in  time,  my  machine  began  to  climb  again.  In 
two  minutes  I  was  safe  at  several  hundred  yards 
above  our  boys.  But  I  came  back  from  that  ex- 
pedition with  the  sense  of  occupying  a  prominent 
place  in  the  thoughts  of  the  German  army.  In  a 
trench  you  have  no  identity.  A  shell  is  fired  not 
at  you  but  at  a  hundred.  In  aerial  combat  there  is 
more  personal  feeling.  You  and  your  German, 
alone  in  the  world,  are  fighting.  But  when  you 
are  the  sole  target  of  the  anti-aircraft  guns,  when 
five  or  six  complete  batteries  are  aiming  intimate 
messages  of  spite  from  Germany  to  you — then  do 
you  feel  that  you  occupy  a  large  area  on  the  map 
of  war.  And  with  deep  thankfulness  I  saw  the 
home  field  that  day. 

The  return  was  always  warmly  satisfying,  any- 
way. The  exultancy  of  flying  takes  a  heavy  toll 
in  nervous  tension.  The  isolation  is  a  strain. 


148  THE  SWALLOW 

Death  is  imminent.  And  to  come  back  to  the 
substantial  earth,  to  secure  human  contacts, 
brought  the  glow  that  follows  hazardous  enter- 
prise. If  one  came  home  with  a  Boche  to  his 
credit  the  satisfaction  was  doubled.  That  was  a 
triumph  I  never  had  a  chance  to  taste. 

We  were  required  to  make  two  patrols  a  day 
over  the  Verdun  lines.  Each  patrol  lasted  from 
two  to  three  hours.  What  other  flying  we  did 
was  voluntary. 

These  were  stirring  days,  with  the  hardest 
strain,  the  keenest  reward  that  I  had  ever  known. 
We  were  called  early  in  the  dark  of  the  morning. 
After  an  unceremonious  cup  of  coffee  we  would 
motor  to  the  field.  While  we  donned  our  "trous- 
seaus" the  mechanicians  rolled  the  machine  from 
the  hangars.  Then  the  shriek  of  "Contact!"  from 
the  man  below  and  before  the  answering  shriek 
was  fairly  from  our  mouths,  it  seemed,  we  were 
four  thousand  feet  up. 

As  dawn  began  to  smudge  the  east  with  pink  we 
could  see  a  cluster  of  red  roofs,  a  strip  of  broken 
earth,  pillars  of  dark  smoke,  showers  of  shells. 
That  was  the  Battle  of  Verdun. 

Back  for  a  brief  rest  in  the  tent  before  lunch, 
then  another  sortie.  After  the  second  breathing- 


THE  SWALLOW  149 

spell  some  of  us  would  voluntarily  make  a  third 
trip.  By  that  time  we  had  keen  appetites  for 
dinner  in  the  villa  where  we  messed  with  our  of- 
ficers. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  last  night  at  the  villa. 
After  a  devastating  game  of  poker,  I  wandered 
into  the  music-room.  The  captain  at  the  grand 
piano  was  softly  playing  Debussey.  From  be- 
hind a  closed  door  the  phonograph  was  shrieking 
"The  Saucy  Little  Bird  on  Nelly's  Hat."  It  was 
a  chilly  June  night  and  a  bunch  of  the  boys, 
lounging  about  the  open  fire,  were  talking  in  low 
tones  on  subjects  seldom  discussed  in  that  healthy, 
objective  spot — the  intimate  subjects  of  love  and 
marriage,  religion  and  death. 

Throwing  myself  down  into  a  deep  chair  be- 
yond the  firelight,  I  thought  of  the  girl  in  Paris 
— in  Paris  no  longer.  No,  she  was  not  there  to- 
night. She  had  written  me  that  she  was  going  to 
the  front  on  a  special  mission  for  a  few  days.  I 
knew  what  "special  mission"  meant  and  all  day 
at  the  thought  of  her  my  heart  had  pounded  in 
terror.  Now,  however,  a  strange  hush  had  come 
over  my  whole  spirit.  I  was  no  longer  afraid  for 
her.  I  was  glad  that  she,  as  well  as  I,  was  a  part 
of  it  all.  I  was  glad  for  the  things  she  could 


150  THE  SWALLOW 

bring  to  a  world  of  suffering — the  merry  smile, 
the  wide  heart,  the  tender  Irish  eyes. 

"My  girl,"  I  said  to  myself,  "my  girl,  my  girl ! 
If  you  knew  how  I  felt  about  you,  you'd  believe !" 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  dawn,  June  18,  1916.  Four  of  us  left 
the  field  to  make  our  regular  patrol.  Each 
was  in  his  own  machine — the  captain,  Payne, 
King  and  I.  Flying  together  in  a  flock  we  pa- 
trolled the  whole  Verdun  front,  across  Hill  No. 
304,  then  turned  and  started  home. 

We  were  still  well  back  within  German  terri- 
tory when  underneath  me  I  saw  a  German.  Far- 
ther down  over  Hill  No.  304  I  saw  more  Germans 
and  dimly  through  the  mist  still  more  Germans. 

Payne  and  King  were  flying  together  at  my 
right.  Pulling  up  closer  to  the  captain  I  wig- 
wagged my  machine.  From  that  he  would  know 
I  had  discovered  an  enemy.  Then  I  began  to 
watch  my  man.  Soon  I  saw  him  separate  from 
the  others.  It  looked  like  a  good  chance  to  get 
on  him  unawares. 

"If  I  miss  him,"  I  thought,  "I'll  fly  right  on 
home,  then  come  back  again." 

I  kept  One  eye  on  the  captain.  He  had  in- 
clined his  plane.  Evidently  he  was  going  after 


152  THE  SWALLOW 

one  of  the  other  Germans  whose  presence  I  had 
signalled  him. 

Making  a  sharp  turn  so  as  to  get  my  man  in 
the  path  of  fire,  I  dove  as  steeply  as  possible.  As 
I  came  down  I  saw  that  his  machine  was  small — 
possibly  a  two-seater.  That  meant  that  he  was 
as  fast  as  I.  One  second  I  poised  for  decision.  In 
that  second  lay  my  future.  I  decided  to  attack. 

I  ran  up  to  him.  I  passed.  He  crossed  my  line 
of  fire.  I  opened  up  my  gun.  He  dropped  into 
my  sights.  I  fired — once,  twice.  Those  were  my 
first  and  last  shots.  My  machine  gun  had  jammed  \ 

Now  the  other  Germans  began  to  appear 
through  the  mist.  One  was  at  my  left,  two  were 
on  my  right,  one  was  underneath,  the  man  I  had 
first  attacked  was  behind  me.  From  the  silence 
of  my  gun  they  would  know  there  was  nothing  to 
fear.  They  would  get  on  top  of  me.  My  fight 
was  over.  I  was  too  far  behind  the  German  lines 
to  dive  to  earth.  I  could  only  manoeuvre  back  to 
the  field. 

I  began  to  loop;  I  swung  in  every  direction;  I 
went  into  a  cloud.  Bullets  followed. 

"Pt!"     One  had  scratched  my  machine. 

I  slipped  away  from  the  man  who  fired  it  and 
threw  the  belly  of  my  plane  upwards. 

"Pt,  pt,  pt !"    This  time  one  went  through. 


THE  SWALLOW  153 

"Ft,  pt,  pt!  Ft,  pt,  pt!  Ft,  pt,  pt!"  The 
machine  was  full  of  them. 

I  was  now  about  twelve  thousand  feet  up.  It 
was  while  I  was  standing  completely  on  my  head, 
the  belly  of  my  plane  skyward,  that  something 
struck  me.  It  felt  like  the  kick  of  a  mule.  I  had 
the  sensation  of  losing  a  leg  and  put  my  hand 
down  to  learn  if  I  were  all  there.  I  was  strapped 
in  too  tightly  to  be  knocked  overboard  and  I  had 
the  presence  of  mind  to  cut  the  motor.  But  as 
my  right  foot  went  back  with  the  shock  of  the 
bullet,  my  left  foot  sprang  forward.  So  with 
my  commands  reversed,  my  leg  out  of  business, 
still  standing  on  my  head,  I  fell  into  a  spinning 
nose  dive. 

Around  and  down,  around  and  down.  It  was 
all  over.  Soon  I  should  hit  the  ground  as  I  had 
seen  so  many  friends  hit  it.  That  would  be  all. 
How  strange  that  I,  the  I  that  had  seemed  undy- 
ing, should  hit  the  ground  like  all  the  rest.  I 
remembered  the  first  man  I  had  picked  up.  I 
should  look  like  that.  I  remembered  when  I  had 
picked  up  my  captain.  I  had  cried.  Would  any 
one  cry  for  me1?  Would  the  girl  in  Paris  care? 

Around  and  down — why,  could  this  be  death, 
this  ease — almost  this  ecstasy — of  giving  up*? 
There  was  no  terror,  no  numbness;  nothing  but 


154  THE  SWALLOW 

my  clear  mind  following  my  body — following, 
not  fighting.  Why,  death  could  not  be  like  this ! 
I  must  see  her  again,  the  Stormy  Petrel.  That 
thought  came  thundering  through  space.  Came 
a  second  crash — France,  my  usefulness,  my  job. 
I  was  giving  these  without  a  struggle. 

"Stop  yourself,  coward!" — I  was  shouting  it 
out  loud,  trying  to  shout  it  above  this  rush  of  air 
that  had  been  drugging  me  into  abandonment. 
"You're  not  dead.  Don't  be  a  quitter.  Mother 
— don't  let  me  give  up!  Mother!" 

Before  that  moment  I  had  been  a  boy,  adven- 
turous, enthusiastic,  perhaps  as  courageous  as  the 
most.  To  me  at  twenty,  flying  for  France  had 
been  sport,  well-meant,  timely,  even  gallant,  but 
still  sport.  It  was  not  until  I  flung  my  mother's 
name  into  the  drowning  air  that  I  crossed  the  line 
between  sport  and  conflict.  In  that  second  I 
grew  up. 

Making  a  supreme  effort,  I  tried  to  push  my 
bad  leg  with  my  hand;  but  the  machine  planes 
were  so  wedged  in  the  fall  that  I  could  not  get 
the  commands.  If  I  hit  here  I  should  be  a  Ger- 
man prisoner.  Working  my  right  leg  with  my 
hands,  working  it  desperately,  at  last  I  felt  the 
kinks  come  out  of  the  commands.  Once  more  the 
machine  was  on  the  level.  Now  if  I  could  make 


THE  SWALLOW  155 

my  dazed  brain  remember  the  rules  for  flying  with 
one  foot.  Pull  the  left  instead  of  pushing  with 
the  right — if  I  could  remember  to  do  that! 

"Ft,  pt,  pt!" 

My  gun  was  still  useless.  My  entire  right  side 
was  paralysed.  I  was  bleeding  like  a  pig.  But 
at  that  sound  I  dove  again.  This  time  I  kept  con- 
trol. I  was  low  enough  now  so  that  through  the 
mist  I  could  see  the  trenches  like  worm-eaten 
wood,  and  the  snaky  curve  of  the  river.  I  put 
my  plane  in  more  than  a  vertical  dive,  shooting 
back  under  the  Germans  so  far  that  the  roll  of 
cartridges  fell  out  and  falling,  hit  my  arm.  I 
thought  I  had  been  struck  again.  Everything  was 
falling  out  now. 

"Pt,  pt,  pt!" 

I  looked  at  my  metre.  Eight  hundred  feet 
above  ground.  I  was  going  to  hit  in  Germany ! 

I  could  see  the  trenches.  I  must  get  home! 
Pulling  back  the  release  I  opend  up  the  motor. 
It  was  now  making  fifteen  hundred  revolutions  a 
minute ;  it  could  go  no  faster.  I  poised  a  second, 
then  took  a  long  running  dive  over  the  lines.  I 
went  so  fast  that  I  could  scarcely  recognise  the 
trenches.  I  went  so  far  that  I  left  my  enemies 
out  of  sight. 

I  was  now  growing  too  faint  to  go  on.     I  saw 


156  THE  SWALLOW 

a  green  field  and,  making  a  turn  to  the  left,  came 
up  to  the  wind  and  dove  for  the  field.  Too  late 
I  saw  that  it  was  filled  with  barbed  wire;  I  was 
landing  between  the  front  line  trenches  and  the 
reserve  lines.  The  barbed  wire  caught  my  wheels 
and  very  gently  my  machine  turned  completely 
upside  down.  I  knew  that  it  was  going  over  me. 
I  should  bleed  to  death  after  all.  But  as  it  turned 
my  straps  tore  loose.  The  belt  that  held  me 
dropped  me,  alive,  in  France,  with  my  machine 
safe  beside  me. 

Pain  left  me,  fear  left  me.  Was  this  helpless 
safety  the  thing  for  which  I  had  fought  my  spir- 
itual battle  up  there  in  the  air? 

Safety1?  In  the  field  next  to  me  I  saw  a  burst 
of  smoke,  then  a  white  spot;  then  another  and 
another  before  I  realised  what  it  meant.  The 
Germans  were  shelling  me  from  the  air.  They 
had  seen  me  fall;  they  were  trying  to  kill  me 
where  I  lay;  worse  yet,  they  were  trying  to  de- 
stroy my  machine. 

"Cowards!"  I  cried,  "to  hit  a  machine  when 
it's  down !" 

I  was  sure  I  said  the  words  aloud,  yet  I  could 
not  hear  them.  Now  I  knew  why  I  did  not  hear 
the  bombs  they  were  firing  at  me;  my  ears  had 
been  deadened  by  the  terrific  fall.  It  was  like 


THE  SWALLOW  157 

the  movies,  to  watch  the  thunderous  shells  burst 
silently  near  me. 

When  the  bombing  stopped,  some  one  would 
come  for  me.  I  suffered  so  little  pain  that  I  knew 
I  was  not  badly  wounded.  I  should  be  sent  to 
Paris.  The  Stormy  Petrel  would  take  care  of 
me ;  she  had  promised.  Then  when  I  was  getting 
well  we  would  have  more  gay  little  dinners;  her 
eyes  would  laugh  at  me  across  the  table,  laugh 
away  something  deeper  than  laughter.  Then  I 
would  come  back  to  the  squad  and  fight,  and  the 
next  time  I  would  get  my  German.  But,  strange 
climax  of  the  human  heart,  now,  after  that  vic- 
tory over  myself,  it  was  more  of  those  good  times 
in  Paris  that  I  thought  than  of  my  job. 

The  bursts  of  smoke  had  ceased.  Tired  of  wait- 
ing, I  tried  to  crawl.  I  could  not  move.  I  got 
up  on  my  hands  and  knees  to  try  again  but  could 
no  more  move  than  if  I  had  been  staked  to  the 
ground.  Finally,  catching  the  grass,  I  dragged 
myself  like  a  dog  with  a  broken  back.  Inch  by 
inch  I  made  about  ten  yards;  then  I  could  go  no 
farther. 

It  was  now  about  six  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
The  sun  which  had  driven  away  the  mist,  flamed 
down  upon  me  in  the  unshadowed  field.  I  un- 
buttoned my  heavy  flying  clothes.  I  took  the 


158  THE  SWALLOW 

shoe  off  my  right  foot;  it  dripped  red.  Utterly 
exhausted  by  these  efforts,  I  could  feel  only  a 
dumb  wonder  at  the  sight.  Somehow  I  could  not 
connect  that  bleeding  foot  with  myself.  I  was 
all  right.  I  must  let  my  mother  know  this  at 
once.  Then  I  would  go  to  Paris  for  those  good 
times. 

After  I  had  waited  a  few  minutes  longer,  fouf 
French  soldiers  came,  stooping  low ;  they,  too,  had 
kept  quiet  till  the  shelling  had  ceased.  Crawling 
under  the  barbed  wire,  they  caught  hold  of  me  and 
asked  what  was  the  matter. 

"Bullet — in  my — hip,"  I  muttered,  choking 
back  with  each  word  a  groan  at  the  touch  of  their 
hands.  The  pain  of  their  rough  grasp  was  so 
severe  that  now  for  the  first  time  I  wondered. 
Could  my  wound  be  worse  than  I  had  thought1? 

"Can  you  walk*?"  they  asked  in  French. 
,     "Mais  non"  said  I,  indignantly. 

Two  took  me  by  the  shoulders,  two  by  the  feet. 
Then  like  a  beast  unleashed  my  pain  broke  from 
its  long  stupor.  Almost  crawling  to  escape  the 
enemy's  eye,  the  four  men  dragged  me  like  a  sack 
of  grain.  Through  the  long  grass,  over  and  across 
and  under  the  web  of  barbed  wire,  my  bleeding 
body  sagged  and  sometimes  bumped  the  ground. 
The  pain  had  now  become  such  torture  that  I  al- 


THE  SWALLOW  159 

most  fainted.  Oh,  if  only  some  enemy  would 
see  us,  would  shoot  an  end  to  my  hell ! 

I  do  not  know  how  long  that  journey  lasted. 
All  I  do  know  is  that  at  last  we  came  to  the  dress- 
ing-station behind  the  trenches.  Here,  lying  face 
downwards  on  a  bed,  I  thought  of  only  one  thing. 
As  a  child  longs  for  home  at  night,  I  longed  for 
mine.  The  rattle  of  the  poker-chips,  a  big  Amer- 
ican voice  singing  "You  Made  Me  Love 
You" — American  ragtime,  jokes,  faces — if  I 
could  only  get  back  to  these  to-day,  it  didn't  mat- 
ter where  that  German  bullet  hit.  Then  to-mor- 
row I  should  see  the  girl.  The  boys  would  send 
me  to  Paris. 

Meanwhile  some  one  was  pulling  off  my  fur 
combination.  As  they  cut  away  my  shirt  and 
dressed  the  wound,  the  antitoxin  numbed  the 
pain.  Now  I  suffered  no  more  than  I  had  there 
on  the  field.  It  was  in  this  deadened  state  that, 
looking  around,  I  saw  for  the  first  time  the  hole 
in  my  hip.  With  a  curiosity  that  was  almost 
grotesque,  I  stared  at  that  wound.  All  the  time 
it  seemed  to  me  that  this  gaping,  black  hole  be- 
longed to  some  other  man;  just  as  when  I  had 
looked  at  my  bleeding  foot  I  could  not  believe 
it  was  mine. 


160  THE  SWALLOW 

The  stretcher-bearers  were  making  ready  to 
pick  me  up.  I  looked  at  them  beseechingly. 

"To  my  squad  at  Bar-le-Duc — right  away — 
please,"  I  begged. 

They  made  no  reply,  and  carrying  me  face 
downward,  my  fur  coat  thrown  over  me,  through 
an  underground  trench,  they  placed  me  at  last 
on  the  floor  of  the  poste  de  secours.  As  I  lay 
there  waiting  my  turn  for  the  ambulance,  I 
watched  three  other  men  go  out  before  me.  Again 
came  the  intense  incredulity.  Was  it  really  I  wait- 
ing so  helplessly,  or  was  it  one  of  those  men  I 
carried  when  I  drove  an  ambulance? 

"To  my  squad  at  Bar-le-Duc — right  away — 
please,"  I  repeated  to  the  broad-shouldered  young 
man  preparing  to  lift  me  to  his  ambulance.  He, 
like  the  stretcher-bearer,  did  not  answer.  I  looked 
into  the  dark,  triangular  face  bending  over  me 
and  clenched  my  teeth  in  a  fury  of  futile  home- 
lessness. 

"One  moment  here!" 

A  man  who  had  just  jumped  from  a  car  hur- 
ried into  the  little  station  and  held  up  his  gloved 
hand  for  attention. 

"Is  there  an  aviator  here  who  fell  a  few  hours 
ago?" 

"I — right  here,"  I  answered  eagerly. 


THE  SWALLOW  161 

"Oui,  oui,  I  saw  your  fall.  I  am  a  member  of 
the  reconaissance  squad.  My  car  is  at  your  dis- 
posal." 

I  could  have  cried  out  with  joy.  The  fat 
little  Frenchman,  with  his  red  point  of  beard  and 
reddish  brown  eyes,  took  on  the  glorified  aspect 
of  a  deliverer.  I  could  not  thank  him  enough. 

"Merci,  merci,  merci!"  I  exclaimed.  "Je  suis 
un  Americain,  Lafayette  Escadrille,  Bar-le-Duc. 
Toute  de  smfe,  s'il  vous  plait." 

"Bien,  bien,"  said  he,  calling  his  driver  to  help 
lift  me  from  the  floor. 

With  the  fur  coat  still  thrown  over  me,  my 
stretcher  was  placed  across  the  front  and  back  of 
the  opening  in  the  touring  car.  As  the  driver 
settled  himself  at  the  wheel,  my  new  friend 
seated  himself  to  hold  the  stretcher  in  place. 
Just  as  we  were  ready  the  chief  of  the  station 
came  out  to  the  car. 

"To  V ,"  he  ordered  in  a  loud  tone. 

"V is  only  twenty  miles.  Bar-le-Duc  is 

thirty.    This  man  is  not  able  to  travel  so  far.  To 
y i" 

There  was  complete  finality  in  his  tone.  Yet 
despite  this  and  my  present  sickening  disappoint- 
ment, I  still  held  fast  to  my  purpose.  If  they 
would  not  take  me  to  my  friends,  I  would  have 


162  THE  SWALLOW 

my  friends  send  for  me.  For  I  must  see  the 
nurse  to-morrow.  All  through  that  long,  tortur- 
ing drive  over  one  of  the  roughest  roads  in 
France  my  thoughts  crowded  about  those  moments 
of  homecoming.  This  drive,  scarcely  bearable  in 
an^  ambulance,  was  almost  unsupportable  in  a 
light  car  that  permitted  my  stretcher  to  jerk  back 
and  forth.  Every  time  we  went  down  into  a  shell- 
hole  I  could  hardly  keep  from  screaming.  My 
captain,  the  boys — to-night;  my  nurse — to-mor- 
row. That  intense  thought  became  a  prayer. 

At  last  we  reached  V .  Here  I  was  carried 

into  a  long,  narrow  shed  packed  tightly  with  other 
men  on  stretchers  like  myself.  By  this  time  I  was 
half  fainting.  Perhaps  because  of  this  the  first 
sight  of  the  shed  had  the  stagnant  horror  of  a 
dream.  As  an  ambulance  driver  I  was  used  to 
such  scenes,  but  then  I  had  been  well.  Now  each 
mutilated  form  caught  up  my  own  suffering,  re- 
peated it,  dinned  it  into  my  brain,  until  I  thought 
I  had  never  known  health  or  peace  or  beauty. 

I  looked  around  me  in  terror.  Mud  was  thick 
on  the  floor.  Flies  came  down  like  droves  of  lo- 
custs. The  stench  was  that  of  a  stock-yard. 
Poilus,  some  with  arms  torn  off,  some  with  heads 
half  shot  away,  shouted  like  madmen. 


THE  SWALLOW  163 

My  driver  was  leaving  me  now.  As  he  put  me 
down  I  made  a  groping  movement  for  his  arm. 

"Thank  you,  and  for  God's  sake,"  I  said — "for 
God's  sake  telephone  my  captain  at  Bar-le-Duc  to 
come  for  me  to-day." 

He  promised,  but  as  he  turned  away  a  man 
started  to  undress  me. 

"Don't  take  off  my  clothes,"  I  commanded.  "I 
am  leaving  here  in  a  few  moments." 

He  paid  no  attention. 

"I  forbid  you  to  take  off  my  clothes,"  I 
screamed.  "I  am  an  American ;  I  am  going  to  my 
squad." 

He  made  no  answer.  Instead,  from  the  Poilu 
next  to  me  came  a  cry  that  tore  the  air.  I  closed 
my  eyes  to  shut  out  the  scene.  When  I  opened 
them  again  a  surgeon  was  standing  over  me. 

"I'll  just  look  at  the  wound,"  said  he.  "in 
can  get  the  bullet  out  you  can  go  on  to  your 
friends  this  afternoon." 

Reassured,  I  let  them  take  off  my  clothes. 
Then,  naked  and  partly  paralysed,  I  lay  on  the 
dirty  canvas  stretcher  with  a  blanket  thrown  over 
me  until  I  was  carried  to  a  table  in  the  little  white- 
washed shed  that  served  as  an  examination  room. 
With  a  radioscope  under  my  body  the  doctor 
marked  me  six  or  seven  times. 


164  THE  SWALLOW 

"Only  one  bullet?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

"I  don't  believe  it  hit  the  bone,  but  I'll  have  to 
take  it  out.  Then  you  can  go  to  your  friends  to- 
morrow." 

To-morrow!  I  must  be  in  Paris  to-morrow! 
Oh,  I  never  could  wait  till  to-morrow  to  go  to 
Bar-le-Duc! 

I  waited  a  year. 

They  carried  me  to  a  table  in  the  operating 
shed.  The  last  thing  I  saw  was  the  doctor's 
apron,  a  solid  crimson  patch.  Then  struggling 
little,  breathing  easily,  I  swam  out  across  the 
breakers  into  a  shining  calm  that  spread  and 
spread  and  carried  me  on  a  joyous  rosy  tide  to 
Paris. 

I  awoke  at  noon,  not  in  Paris,  but  on  a  stretcher. 
Through  my^twilit  senses  I  could  dimly  see  my 
captain. 

"Mon  capitaine"  I  cried.  "It  wasn't  my  fault. 
My  machine-gun  jammed.  I  fired  at  him  once  but 
my  gun  broke." 

"It's  all  right,  my  little  one,  it's  all  right." 

The  light  stinging  French  accents  of  my  officer 
seemed  to  prick  the  darkness  about  me.  I  won- 
dered if  they  were  fireflies.  I  dropped  asleep.  At 
evening  I  awoke,  begging  for  water.  Some  one 


THE  SWALLOW  165 

shot  some  dope  into  me  and  I  went  back  into  a  hot 
darkness  that  lasted  until  morning.  Again  I 
awoke,  begging  for  water.  More  hot  darkness.  I 
struggled  through  black  suffocation.  I  pulled  one 
leg  after  the  other  toward  an  icy  mountain  brook 
that  laughed  hilariously  as  it  hurried  to  the  sea. 
How  easy  for  it  to  run,  how  hard  for  me!  I 
strained  each  leg  up  from  the  steaming  swamp  but 
could  never  get  ahead.  Summoning  all  my  will, 
I  awoke  with  the  cry  of  "Water!" 

Some  one  brought  me  a  bit  of  wet  bandage  to 
suck.  There  was  a  violent  numbness  in  my  hip; 
weakness  and  thirst  were  all  I  suffered  now.  With 
my  wounded  leg  drawn  up  and  my  knee  doubled 
tight,  I  could  turn  on  one  side.  For  the  first  time 
I  had  a  chance  to  survey  my  surroundings. 

Ten  miles  back  from  the  Verdun  front,  the 
great  French  evacuation  hospital  where  I  lay  was 
near  enough  for  German  aeroplanes  to  bomb  us 
frequently.  Indeed,  the  hospital  was  intended 
merely  for  operation;  as  soon  as  a  man  was  able 
to  be  moved  he  was  sent  to  Paris  or  elsewhere  for 
treatment.  The  average  patient  stayed  three 
days ;  a  few  bad  cases  stayed  five. 

As  an  aviator  I  had  been  given  the  best  the  hos- 
pital afforded.  I  was  in  the  officers'  ward,  a  long 
shed  packed  tightly  with  thirty  cots.  Made  of 


i66  THE  SWALLOW 

three  pine  boards  covered  with  a  straw  mattress, 
two  coarse  sheets,  a  small  pillow  and  blankets, 
these  beds  were  very  different  from  those  we  now 
give  our  wounded.  Then,  at  the  height  of  the 
Verdun  siege,  every  bed  was  filled.  In  fact  dur- 
ing my  whole  stay  I  never  saw  an  empty  one. 

As  I  looked  down  over  the  rows  of  beds  I  again 
had  the  feeling  that  life  was  echoing  unbearably 
my  own  state.  There  in  the  receiving  room  it  had 
been  the  torment  of  pain  that  had  been  caught  up 
and  dinned  into  my  brain  by  those  poor  Poilus. 
Now  in  these  dumb  eyes  about  me  I  saw  my  own 
drugged  and  stricken  will. 

It  was  toward  one  person  they  were  all  looking. 
Irresistibly  I  followed  their  gaze.  Madame,  chief 
of  the  five  women  nurses,  was  just  coming  in 
from  the  dressing-room.  Her  skirt  was  like  a 
snowy  sail,  and  on  her  sleeve  I  caught  the  gleam- 
ing cross  of  the  Secours  des  Blesses.  There  was 
dauntless  energy  in  that  profile,  which  in  its  bold 
curve  reminded  me  of  the  prow  of  a  boat. 

Yet  it  was  more  than  courage  that  took  her  to 
duty  under  fire.  Tenderness  was  back  of  the 
dauntless  profile — tenderness  that  made  her  eyes 
give  a  separate  look  to  each  of  those  thirty  men. 
It  was  a  gift,  that  swift  enfolding  glance,  and  as  I 
received  my  own  I  knew  why  they  all  turned  to 


THE  SWALLOW  167 

her  so  hungrily.  She  was  more  than  a  nurse, 
more  than  a  woman;  she  was  a  presence.  Every 
time  she  glided  into  the  room  she  seemed  to  each 
man  there  like  a  long-awaited  ship  from  home. 

In  the  days  that  followed  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done  without  Madame.  When  she 
was  away  I  used  to  long  for  her  to  come  back  into 
the  room.  Even  her  French  had  a  homey  sound, 
and  the  crooning  little  way  she  had  of  saying 
"Mon  fits"  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were  back  with 
my  own  mother  in  Texas. 

Of  course  we  saw  very  little  of  her.  For  all 
those  fifty  portable  houses  that  constituted  the 
hospital,  there  were  only  five  women.  The  rest 
of  our  nurses  were  young  medical  students  who 
would  have  been  graduated  in  1917.  They  had 
intended  to  go  on  with  their  medical  training  in 
the  auxiliary  army,  but  having  for  various  reasons 
been  found  unfit  for  service,  had  been  transferred 
to  the  medical  ward.  Despite  their  medical  train- 
ing, the  most  of  these  students  had  none  of  the 
sick-room  efficiency  instinctive  in  the  average  un- 
trained woman.  True,  they  would  doubtless  have 
done  better  had  they  not  been  overworked.  But 
there  were  not  enough  nurses,  either  men  or  wom- 
en, to  give  us  more  than  the  most  meagre  care. 

A  few  moments  after  Madame  entered  the  room 


168  THE  SWALLOW 

that  first  morning  the  surgeon  who  had  operated 
on  me  came  striding  down  to  my  bed. 

"Ah,  ha,  boy,"  said  he,  holding  up  to  me  a  little 
bag,  "I'll  show  you  what  I  got  out  of  you — six 
pieces  of  bullet.  Want  them  for  a  souvenir1?" 

Strange  how  lively  is  the  grim  humour  of  the 
hospital!  To  the  outside  world  it  might  seem 
strange,  these  jokes  made  by  dying  men.  To  us 
it  seemed  to  me  we  were  always  waiting  for  a 
chance  to  laugh.  For  instance,  a  short  time  after 
my  arrival  I  heard  a  young  officer  saying  peevishly 
to  his  surgeon :  "Why  didn't  you  bring  me  all  the 
bone  you  got  out  of  my  hip*?  You  might  have 
known  this  wouldn't  be  enough  to  make  dice." 

Now  as  I  looked  up  at  the  bullets  that  had 
brought  me  here  I  felt  myself  grinning.  My 
own  enjoyment  was  echoed  by  a  grizzled  old 
major,  who,  brought  in  yesterday  at  the  same 
time  I  was,  lay  in  the  bed  next  to  mine.  Painfully 
wounded  as  he  was  he  gave  a  little  crow  when  I 
put  the  bullets  down  on  the  stand  at  the  head  of 
my  bed. 

"Well,  Doc,"  said  I,  staring  up  into  the  sur- 
geon's sun-filled  brown  eyes  and  brown,  sun- 
streaked  face,  "what  time  am  I  leaving  to-day4?" 

He  was  an  attractive  chap  in  a  lean,  feline  way 


THE  SWALLOW  169 

and  there  was  real  kindliness  in  the  look  he  turned 
down  to  me. 

"Not  to-day,  my  little  one ;  to-morrow,  perhaps. 
There  are  many  more  pieces  of  this  bullet  to  fol- 
low. It  was  explosive,  you  know." 

Blankly,  unbelievingly,  I  stared  up  into  his 
face. 

"Never  mind,"  said  he,  answering  the  disap- 
pointment of  my  glance,  "I'll  give  you  something 
you'll  like  as  well  as  a  trip  to  Bar-le-Duc,"  and  he 
pulled  out  his  hypodermic. 

For  a  while  a  wide,  floating  joy,  then  another 
fall  into  the  hot  swamp.  I  was  hip-deep  in  black 
ooze.  Mosquitoes  as  large  as  my  own  aeroplane 
buzzed  about  my  head.  I  clutched  at  the  under- 
brush that  smothered  me,  trying  to  pull  myself  up 
by  it.  It  was  devil's-club.  My  hand  was  full  of 
thorns.  Before  me  the  mountain-stream  hurried 
to  the  sea.  It  tossed  white  arms  in  the  air.  It 
looked  back  at  me  over  its  shoulder  with  a  mock- 
ing smile  in  its  cool,  blue  eyes. 

"Now,  altogether,  boys!  Pull — pull  out  of 
this!"  I  commanded. 

My  eyes  jerked  open.  I  knew  now  what  it  was 
I  had  been  trying  to  pull  out  of.  It  was  thirst, 
more  intolerable  than  anything  I  had  ever  felt. 
Compared  with  this  agony  my  previous  state  had 


170  THE  SWALLOW 

been  only  a  wish.  Now  the  cry  for  water  was  so 
intense  that  it  absorbed  every  other  sense.  I 
wanted  to  hear  water,  to  see  water,  to  feel  it  trick- 
ling through  my  fingers.  So  violent  was  this  one 
longing  that  I  was  actually  blinded.  I  did  not  at 
first  see  a  man  standing  beside  my  bed. 

They  came  to  me  one  by  one — the  heavy  black 
hair,  the  great  arms,  and  the  sincerest  eyes  in  the 
world.  When  I  put  them  all  together  I  gave  a 
groan  of  joy.  It  was  Dover  Manley,  flown  over 
from  Bar-le-Duc. 

"Hello,  old  boy,"  he  was  saying,  "here's  your 
tooth-brush." 

He  was  holding  it  out  in  his  great  paw,  and  I 
think  I  realised  even  then  how  hard  he  was  try- 
ing to  be  matter  of  fact.  The  tooth-brush,  the 
English  words,  the  dear  American  voice,  the  avia- 
tor whom  every  one  in  our  squad  loved  deeply — 
I  knew  nothing  now  except  that  I  had  them  again. 
Then  in  a  moment  it  came  back  to  me,  the  ter- 
rible thirst.  "Oh,"  I  thought  with  a  touch  of  the 
craftiness  that  is  part  of  sickness,  "if  I  can  only 
look  how  thirsty  I  am,  Dove  will  do  something 
about  it.  He'll  see  that  I  get  something  better 
than  an  old  wet  bandage  to  suck." 

"Anything  I  can  get  for  you,  old  man?"  said 
he,  meeting  my  thirsty  eyes. 


THE  SWALLOW  171 

"You  bet,"  said  I.  "They  won't  let  me  have 
any  water." 

The  way  I  kept  moistening  my  lips  finished  the 
appeal. 

"How  about  oranges'?"  said  he,  and  turned  to 
my  doctor,  just  that  moment  come  in. 

"Bten,"  answered  the  surgeon  with  a  shrug, 
"but  there  are  not  any  to  be  had  in  the  village." 

"Guess  we'll  fix  that,"  said  Dover.  "I'll  get 
you  those  oranges  if  I  have  to  fly  to  Paris." 

I  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Oranges !  Why 
hadn't  I  thought  of  those  before?  There  is  a  cer- 
tain sublime  ignominy  in  the  way  a  sick  man 
permits  himself  to  gloat  over  something  he  can- 
not have.  I  gave  myself  up  to  this  ignominy  com- 
pletely. 

"Dontchu  worry,"  said  Dover,  lingering  by  my 
side  and  giving  my  arm  a  bear-like  pat.  "Be  out 
of  this  in  no  time." 

He  was  part  of  my  beloved  Bar-le-Duc.  He 
was  my  friend  in  a  world  of  strangers,  yet  I  looked 
at  him  almost  impatiently.  When  would  he  leave 
to  get  the  oranges'? 

The  next  morning  I  woke  from  my  hot,  drugged 
sleep  to  find  my  captain  bending  over  me. 

"Well,  my  little  one,"  said  he,  "I  have  a  pres- 
ent for  you." 


172  THE  SWALLOW 

Could  it  be  the  oranges  at  last*?  I  looked  up 
expectantly. 

Something  in  the  expression  of  my  officer's  face 
drew  my  attention  to  the  whole  room.  There  was 
a  deep  hush  and  through  it  I  felt  the  eye  of  every 
man  upon  me.  Then  I  saw  for  the  first  time  that 
my  captain  was  not  alone.  The  major  and  colo- 
nel were  with  him. 

Suddenly  the  colonel  stepped  forward. 

"In  the  name  of  the  republic,"  began  he — he 
took  from  his  pocket  a  large  box — "I  confer  upon 
you  le Medaille Militaire and  la  Croix  de  Guerre" 

'Tor  me?"  I  asked  in  surprise.     "What  for?" 

The  figure  in  its  horizon-blue  gathered  as  if 
about  to  spring. 

"Pourquoi?"  His  light,  racing  syllables 
slowed  solemnly.  "You  are  the  first  American 
aviator  to  be  severely  wounded — for  France. 
With  marvellous  calmness  of  mind,  suffering 
greatly  as  you  must  have  suffered,  you  flew  far, 
far,  far  over  German  ground  to  bring  your  ma- 
chine back  safe — to  France.  There  is  sometimes 
a  braver  thing  than  overcoming  an  enemy.  It  is 
overcoming  yourself.  You,  my  son,  have  done 
this — for  a  country  not  your  own." 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  me  on  botk  cheeks. 


THE  SWALLOW  173 

Then,  as  I  wore  no  shirt,  he  laid  the  medals  on 
the  pillow  beside  me. 

My  physical  combat  had  been  useless.  My 
spiritual  combat  had  resulted  in  my  one  real  serv- 
ice. My  only  value  to  France  had  been  exactly 
the  value  of  the  machine  I  had  brought  home. 
From  my  decision  to  stay  on  the  job  had  sprung 
my  one  bit  of  usefulness;  for  that  decision  had 
come  now  these  small  honours.  Had  I  but  known 
it,  this  was  a  symbol  of  my  future.  It  justified 
the  instinct  that  later  kept  me  on  the  job  when  I 
could  see  no  chance  for  serving,  no  chance  for  be- 
ing anything  but  a  burden.  How  strange  that  this 
cool,  efficient  colonel  should  have  commended  my 
struggle  rather  than  my  performance!  No,  not 
strange.  That  was  the  spirit  of  his  country. 

In  the  solemn  hush  a  cork  popped.  Madame 
had  produced  some  champagne  and  was  pouring 
a  little  in  the  glass  of  every  man  in  the  ward. 

"Vive  le  petit  americain!"  she  proposed,  her 
soft  eyes,  as  mellow  and  lively  as  the  wine,  smil- 
ing at  me  over  the  bottle. 

"Vive  le  petit  americain!"  came  back  the 
cheers,  some  almost  a  bark  of  pain,  some  already 
feeble  with  death,  as  those  grizzly  spectres  raised 
themselves  on  their  pillows. 

Ah,  now  I  knew  what  it  all  meant — those  peo- 


174  THE  SWALLOW 

pie  grouped  about  me  like  the  picture  of  some 
famous  death-bed.  Yesterday  I  had  seen  two  men 
decorated.  Both  had  died  within  the  hour.  So 
my  time  had  come ! 

"Merci"  I  responded  in  a  scared  voice.  Then 
to  my  own  surprise  I  heard  myself  adding  firmly, 
"But  I'm  not  going  to  die." 

Why  did  I  say  this1?  Only  a  moment  before, 
all  morning,  all  through  the  fitful  torments  of  the 
night,  the  courage  to  live  had  been  slowly  leaving 
me.  This  weakness,  which  made  my  body  stretch 
into  miles  of  weariness,  each  mile  dwindling  into 
a  thinner  thread ;  this  thirst,  which  filled  my  mind 
to  madness — now  indeed  life  was  a  harder  thing 
than  it  had  seemed  up  there  in  the  air.  That  fight 
had  meant  only  a  tremendous  quickening.  This, 
I  was  beginning  to  see,  was  a  slow  resolution 
which  must  pit  itself  minute  by  minute  and  hour 
by  hour  against  a  torture  of  weakness  and  thirst. 
The  colonel's  words  of  a  moment  before  came 
back  to  me.  I  would  get  well ! 

The  ceremony  was  over.  The  officers  had  con- 
gratulated me  and  left.  Lying  back,  I  looked  at 
my  insignia  on  the  pillow  beside  me.  My  mother 
— I  wanted  her  to  see  those  bits  of  ribbon  and 
metal.  My  eyes  dimmed.  The  nurse  in  Paris — 
I  wanted  her  to  know.  For  one  moment  I  thrilled. 


THE  SWALLOW  175 

As  I  looked,  however,  I  had  a  sudden  wayward 
thought.  If  only  those  medals  were  oranges!  I 
thought  of  oranges  I  had  seen  in  California  groves, 
compact  balls  of  sunshine  among  their  dark 
leaves ;  of  whole  boxes  of  oranges  tilted  up  tempt- 
ingly in  fruit-stands;  of  sliced  oranges  dripping 
with  nectar  as  I  had  eaten  them  in  Paris  cafes. 
If  I  could  only  melt  those  medals  and  drink  them 
from  a  glass — melt  them  into  cold,  fragrant,  gol- 
den juice 

"Boy."  I  heard  the  old  major  who  lay  next  to 
me  addressing  me  sharply. 

I  looked  up  and  saw  that  he  had  raised  himself 
on  his  pillow.  There  was  a  fierce  interrogation  in 
his  eyes  that  made  me  quail.  Had  he  read  my  sac- 
rilegious thought^ 

"Do  you  understand  what  it  means — that  which 
has  just  happened  to  you1?"  he  was  saying  now. 

"Qui"  I  murmured. 

"To  fight  for  France,  to  die  for  France — it  is  a 
privilege  given  only  to  a  few.  You,  boy,  are  one 
of  those  few.  Do  you  comprehend,  then,  the 
honour  of  your  lot*?" 

Utterly  exhausted,  he  fell  back  to  his  pillow, 
but  his  eyes,  still  fixed  upon  me,  had  in  them  so 
holy  and  deathless  a  joy  that  my  soul  was  awed 
before  it. 


176  THE  SWALLOW 

I  stammered  that  I  did  appreciate  it.  I  made 
a  giant  effort  to  put  away  all  thought  of  my 
thirst,  and  on  some  bits  of  paper  I  had  found  be- 
gan writing  to  my  mother.  "Don't  worry.  I  am 
going  to  get  well."  No  one  will  ever  know  what 
it  cost  me  to  write  those  few  words.  Yet,  spurred 
on  by  the  old  major,  I  made  myself  write  still  an- 
other line.  Then,  completely  prostrated,  I  laid 
the  scraps  down,  and  to  keep  them  from  blowing 
away,  held  them  on  the  table  by  my  bag  of  bul- 
lets. It  took  many  days  of  real  toil  to  finish  that 
letter. 

Next  day  the  oranges  did  come.  But  it  was 
not  Dover  Manley  who  brought  them.  It  was 
Payne  who  thrust  the  bag  into  my  hand. 

I  did  not  at  first  ask  why  this  was.  With  my 
eyes  fixed  on  that  golden  hoard  of  fruit,  I  almost 
trembled  to  begin.  But  my  old  major.  He 
must  see  no  such  greed.  I  waited  until  every  man 
in  the  ward  was  supplied  before  I  myself  claimed 
my  guerdon.  It  was  only  after  a  few  rapt  swal- 
lows of  the  cooling  juice  that  I  remembered  to  ask 
about  Dover. 

"Couldn't  come  to-day;  machine's  busted,"  re- 
plied Payne,  leaving  me  somewhat  abruptly. 
"One  of  the  boys  will  get  you  some  more  to- 
morrow." 


THE  SWALLOW  177 

The  next  day  a  young  French  officer  looked  up 
at  me  suddenly  from  his  Paris  paper.  "Connais- 
sez-vois  un  americain,  Dover  Manley*?"  asked  he. 

"Om,  oui,  ouiT 

"II  est  mort" 

"Mais  non!" 

"Mais  ouil    Voila!" 

He  then  showed  me  the  clipping.  Killed  in  an 
air-fight  with  a  Boche  while  on  his  way  with  or- 
anges for  a  sick  friend  at  the  hospital  in  V ! 

I  could  not  keep  back  a  cry.  The  next  orange 
that  I  tried  choked  me.  Yet  a  few  hours  after- 
wards I  was  goaded  by  my  thirst  into  taking  an- 
other swallow.  After  that,  morning,  noon  and 
night,  I  held  an  orange  to  my  lips.  It  was  to  me 
at  first  a  kind  of  ferocious  contradiction.  It 
pressed  in  more  bitterly  the  real  grief  for  my 
friend  at  the  same  time  that  it  released  all  the 
physical  longing  of  my  body.  Gradually,  how- 
ever, I  forgot  everything  else  in  the  heaven  of  its 
fruity  sweetness. 

By  this  time  I  no  longer  thought  of  going  to 
Bar-le-Duc.  My  desire  was  concerned  only  with 
the  girl  in  the  hospital  at  Paris.  To-morrow  I 
should  go,  the  doctor  kept  promising;  yes,  abso- 
lutely, I  should  be  moved  to-morrow.  And  when 
Foster  came  down  to  see  me  once  I  said,  "There 


178  THE  SWALLOW 

was  a  little  joke  with  Miss  Gale — she  was  to  keep 
a  bed  for  me  in  her  ward.  Tell  her  now  it's  not 
a  joke  any  longer — I'll  be  there  to-morrow." 

But  on  the  fourth  day  the  shifting  to-morrow 
vanished.  Then  it  was  that  an  orderly  carried 
me  the  length  of  the  ward  to  the  dressing-table. 
For  the  first  time  since  my  arrival  the  wound  was 
to  be  dressed. 

As  the  doctor  ripped  the  packing  from  the 
wound,  I  heard  a  splash  on  the  floor.  I  looked 
around  to  see  what  had  fallen.  Dirty  corrugated 
blood  rolled  out  by  the  cupful.  I  looked  around 
again  and  saw  a  hole  in  my  body  like  a  large  open 
box. 

"What'd  you  cut  me  up  so  for,  Doc1?"  I  asked 
in  a  frightened  voice. 

"I  had  to,  my  little  one." 

"But  how  am  I  going  to  get  to  Paris  to-day 
with  that  hole  in  me?"  I  asked  faintly. 

"Oh,  in  ten  days  you  get  there." 

Ten  days !  And  every  day  he  had  been  saying 
to-morrow!  Was  my  wound  so  much  worse?  I 
looked  up  at  him  with  scared  questioning. 

"Voila!"  he  was  saying  merrily.  "I  pack  that 
hole  in  you  like  a  pony-pack  and  strap  you  up 
tight  like  a  bellyband.  Then  you  gallop  back  to 
bed." 


THE  SWALLOW  179 

All  the  time  that  he  was  fixing  me  up  I  kept  my 
eyes  on  his  face.  There  was  still  frightened  ques- 
tioning in  the  look.  I  had  never  realised  before 
that  my  wound  was  a  serious  one.  At  last  I  opened 
my  lips.  I  wanted  to  ask  him  something.  At  this 
moment,  however,  an  orderly  seized  me,  spilled 
me  into  bed  and  hurried  on  to  another  patient.  No 
one  person  could  get  much  time  in  the  hospital 
at  V . 

It  was  the  day  after  this,  the  fifth  day  of  my 

residence  at  V ,  that  they  first  gave  me  water 

— water  with  vichy.  In  the  meanwhile  I  had 
begun  to  suffer  for  the  food  which,  because  my  in- 
testines were  pierced  in  a  dozen  or  more  places, 
they  had  not  yet  permitted  me.  Now  indeed,  the 
longest,  bitterest  hour  of  the  day  was  at  noon. 
Then  the  other  men  were  eating.  I  could  smell 
those  savoury  French  soups.  I  could  see  those  airy 
French  omelettes,  but  I  could  never  have  a  taste. 

"Garcon,  what  shall  I  have  for  luncheon?"  I 
would  say  to  the  orderly;  "Sole  Marguery,  per- 
haps, and  sauterne*?" 

He  was  a  supple,  slim-waisted  young  French- 
man, with  tiny  black  eyes,  like  a  mouse's,  which 
almost  met  over  his  long,  mouse-like  nose;  the 
whitest,  the  most  perfect  teeth  I  have  ever  seen; 
and  the  smile  of  a  hyena.  His  smile  held  a  shud- 


180  THE  SWALLOW 

dering  fascination  for  me.  I  would  try  to  call  it 
out;  then,  panic-stricken  at  the  sight,  try  to  push 
it  back. 

"I'll  bring  you  a  dish,  Monsieur,  that  is  to-day's 
specialty,"  he  would  reply  before  he  hurried  off, 
to  return  with  a  long  rubber  tube  twisted  over  his 
arm  like  a  rhythmic  napkin.  He  would  then  jab 
in  his  hypodermic  needle,  pour  in  a  quart  of  saline 
solution,  and  announce  with  savage  obsequious- 
ness, "Luncheon  is  served." 

At  the  point  of  the  needle  my  skin  would  puff 
out  as  big  as  two  fists,  and  my  heart  would  pump 
the  life-giving  fluid  through  my  veins. 

"You  have  excellent  assimilation,  Monsieur," 
the  orderly  would  comment  with  that  dreaded 
flash  of  white  teeth.  "Voila,  how  quickly  you  di- 
gest your  luncheon !" 

Then  came  the  day  when  I  banqueted  on  milk 
and  vichy,  and  finally  the  day  the  doctor  had  set 
for  my  release,  the  day  when  I  first  had  coffee. 

Coffee  was  salvation.  There  was  the  long,  hot 
purgatory  of  night,  when  the  lights  were  dimmed, 
when  windows  and  doors  were  shut  tightly  against 
bombing  Germans,  when  the  stench  of  thirty 
wounded  men,  unwashed  for  weeks,  was  that 
of  a  dog-kennel,  when  every  second  was  a  century. 
Then  morning,  the  wonder  how  you  were  to  live 


THE  SWALLOW  181 

through  the  sleepless  day,  the  end  of  your  endur- 
ance and — coffee !  For  days  I  had  watched  other 
men  find  revival  in  that  steaming  cup.  Now  my 
turn  had  come. 

The  first  gulp  brought  a  hopeful  sense  of  vigour 
I  had  not  known  since  I  was  hurt.  Excited  by  the 
stimulant,  exultant  over  my  coming  freedom,  I 
lay  upon  the  surgeon's  table  waiting  to  have  my 
wound  dressed. 

"Well,  Doc,"  was  the  way  I  reminded  him  of 
his  promise,  "what  would  you  say  if  I'd  run  up 
to  town  to-day  and  have  a  little  spree*?" 

He  looked  down  at  me  with  his  warm,  childlike 
eyes. 

"Would  you  rather  be  patient  here  a  little 
longer  and  get  well,  or  die  to-night  on  the  way  to 
Paris'?" 

Under  the  feeding  of  the  last  few  days  I  had 
grown  less  afraid  of  the  ugly  hole  in  my  hip.  I 
had  indeed  almost  forgotten  that  question  which 
had  hovered  on  my  lips  the  first  day  the  doctor 
had  dressed  my  wound.  This  morning  as  I 
drained  the  hot,  steaming  coffee,  why,  I  had  actu- 
ally felt  happy.  The  good  times  in  Paris  had  al- 
ready begun  to  simmer  pleasantly  in  my  brain. 
The  Stormy  Petrel,  her  blue  eyes  laughing  at  me 
across  our  little  table  in  the  cafe ! 


182  THE  SWALLOW 

He  must  have  seen  how  my  face  changed  for 
he  added  quickly:  "You  see,  it  is  this  way.  If  you 
went  now  you  might  not  even  die." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  I  made  my- 
self say  it — made  myself  say  it,  though  I  knew 
too  well  the  answer. 

"And  if  I  didn't  die?" 

"You  might  have  to  have  your  leg  amputated. 
That  you  would  not  like,  n'esf  ce-pas,  my  little 
American*?" 

Amputated !  I  said  it  over  and  over  to  myself 
with  the  cowardly  courage  of  one  who  is  bound  to 
be  trapped  by  no  future  dismay. 

When  I  reached  the  bed  my  face  must  have 
been  very  white,  whiter  than  ever;  for  my  old 
major,  being  prepared  for  his  departure,  shot  a 
sharp  glance  at  me  from  under  the  deep  cliff  of 
eyebrow  before  he  lifted  his  head  and  glared  about 
the  ward. 

"II  est  un  brave  petit  gars,  I'aviateur  ameri- 
cam,"  he  announced  loudly,  with  a  warlike  lift  of 
his  grey  moustaches.  And  motioning  the  stretcher- 
bearer  to  bring  him  closer  he  placed  a  scratchy 
kiss  on  each  of  my  cheeks.  I  forgot  the  terrible 
word  I  had  been  trying  to  learn.  I  was  prouder 
of  that  salute  than  I  had  been  of  my  decoration. 
It  was  harder  to  earn.  I  have  never  heard  again 


THE  SWALLOW  183 

of  my  old  major  but  I  cannot  forget  one  who 
made  the  bitterest  of  all  fights  with  such  sublime 
purpose  that  he  did  not  even  know  it  was  a  fight. 

The  events  of  that  day  were  too  much.  That 
night  I  began  to  bleed  violently.  I  had  one  hem- 
orrhage after  another. 

"Orderly,"  I  called,  "I'm  bleeding  to  death." 

The  orderly's  face  said,  "That's  good."  The 
orderly  said  nothing.  He  was  hurried  and  tired. 
Instead  of  taking  time  to  get  a  doctor  he  wrapped 
me  up  so  tight  that  I  was  in  agony  and  left  me. 
I  knew  that  he  was  worn  and  sleepless.  A  few 
hours  more  or  less  of  pain  didn't  matter  much.  So 
I  decided  not  to  disturb  him  again  that  night. 

But  about  midnight  I  heard  a  gasp.  To  my  old 
major's  bed  they  had  just  brought  a  captain  with 
a  bullet  through  his  lungs.  He  was  sitting  up 
now,  gurgling  and  spitting  blood  over  himself  and 
over  me,  who  could  not  move  out  of  his  way.  Fi- 
nally his  head  jerked  down.  I  cried  out  for  the 
orderly.  He  pulled  a  sheet  over  the  body  and  left 
it  to  be  taken  out  in  the  morning. 

On  the  other  side  of  me  that  night  was  a  lieu- 
tenant who  had  been  shot  in  the  leg.  When  they 
brought  him  in  that  morning  his  skin  was  green, 
his  face  and  hands  were  full  of  blood.  "Don't 
let  them  touch  me,  don't  let  them  touch  me,"  he 


184  THE  SWALLOW 

had  screamed  when  first  he  saw  me.  All  that 
night,  every  time  he  heard  a  step,  he  begged  me 
piteously  not  to  let  them  hurt  him.  When  I 
could  stir  through  my  own  misery  I  gave  him  my 
handkerchief  so  that  he  could  wipe  the  blood  from 
his  lips.  I  gave  him  too  my  piece  of  muslin  to 
keep  the  flies  off  his  face.  Before  dawn  he  was 
breathing  heavily.  For  the  third  time  that  night 
I  called  the  orderly. 

"I  can't  do  anything  for  him,"  said  he  irritably. 

"He's  dying,"  said  I. 

"What  more  could  he  want  then1?"  growled  the 
orderly. 

After  the  last  long  gasp  I  reached  over  and  at 
the  cost  of  terrific  pain  held  down  his  eyelids  so 
they  would  stay  closed.  His  face  grew  cold  under 
my  hand.  The  orderly,  coming  back  on  his  rounds, 
pulled  the  sheet  up  over  the  body. 

A  sheeted  form  on  my  right,  a  sheeted  form  on 
my  left.  The  stillness  of  death,  after  violent  life, 
rang  in  my  ears.  It  made  more  intense  and  sol- 
emn the  stillness  of  my  own  brain.  All  through 
the  long  dawn  I  lay  awake  with  the  thought  of 
my  future.  How  still  the  future  looked,  how 
quenched ! 

To  lose  my  usefulness,  to  come  back  to  crip- 
pled life,  this  was  the  thing  that  had  been  haunt- 


THE  SWALLOW  185 

Ing  me  since  I  had  first  caught  sight  of  that  black 
box  in  my  hip.  The  doctor's  word  of  the  after- 
noon had  made  it  all  too  definite.  It  held  me  in  a 
vice,  that  one  word.  Yet  my  mind  refused  the 
pictures  it  created.  I  would  not  look,  I  would  not 
look.  And  all  the  time  those  silent  forms  on  each 
side  of  me  made  more  rigid  the  terror  of  my 
doomed  living.  At  last  how  I  envied  them.  If 
only  I  could  lie,  long  and  lumpy,  under  one  of 
those  white  sheets! 

But  I  went  on  living  through  ten  more  days  of 
haunted  imprisonment — ten  more  days  tortured 
for  sleep  that  would  not  come,  days  when  I  was 
too  heavy  with  weariness  to  brush  the  flies  off  my 
face,  too  hot  to  cover  it  with  the  muslin  cloth; 
ten  more  nights  more  tortured  than  the  day,  nights 
dingy  and  endless  and  noisy  with  dying.  Every 
night  eight  or  twelve  men  found  the  easier  way. 
Every  morning  stretcher-boxes  came  to  carry  out 
the  dead.  Every  morning  stretcher-bearers  came 
to  fill  their  places  with  the  living.  Not  for  five 
minutes  did  I  ever  see  a  bed  vacant.  Was  it  any 

wonder  that  in  the  hospital  at  V I  lost  all 

sense  of  the  dignity  of  death?  It  had  become  a 
commonplace  mechanism. 

In  a  place  where  men  died  like  flies,  where  there 
weren't  half  enough  doctors  or  orderlies,  the  filth 


i86  THE  SWALLOW 

of  course  was  indescribable.  Although  the  floors 
were  scrubbed  every  day,  this  cleansing  could  not 
prevail  against  the  constant  stream  of  wounded. 
As  for  the  patients,  they  never  had  a  drop  of  wa- 
ter on  their  bodies  except  when  they  were  allowed 
to  wash  hands  and  face  every  other  morning.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  the  huge  bottle  of  eau  de  Co- 
logne with  which  the  boys  from  the  squad  satu- 
rated me,  I  think  I  should  have  died  of  nausea. 

As  I  have  said,  such  conditions  will  never  ex- 
ist again.  The  Verdun  attack  had  overtaken 
France  without  proper  hospital  equipment.  I 
never  blamed  those  who  worked  here.  On  the  con- 
trary I  have  the  highest  respect  for  efforts  which 
were  simply  titanic.  Every  man  wounded  at  Ver- 
dun passed  through  that  hospital.  Doctors,  work- 
ing day  and  night,  often  twelve  hours  at  a  stretch, 
operated  on  one  man  after  another  as  fast  as  they 
could.  Give  a  man  the  best  you  can,  as  fast  as 
you  can;  if  he  dies,  let  him  die;  if  he  lives,  ship 
him  away  where  he  can  get  better  care;  this  was 
the  purpose  of  the  place.  And  doctors  and  order- 
lies carried  it  out  with  superhuman  heroism.  If 
at  times  their  treatment  of  patients  seemed  appal- 
ling, the  strain  on  them  was  more  appalling. 

The  Verdun  siege  was  taxing  the  Paris  hospi- 
tals too.  I  heard  rumours  of  how  my  blue-eyed 


THE  SWALLOW  187 

nurse  was  working.  I  had  just  one  message  from 
her.  And  I  knew  that  no  matter  how  crowded  the 
hospital  was,  there  would  be  a  bed  for  me.  Fos- 
ter, who  brought  me  her  message,  would  not  be 
down  to  see  me  again ;  he  was  off  on  an  important 
mission.  So  during  this  time  my  chief  comforts 
were  Madame  and  the  boys  from  the  squad. 
Every  afternoon  some  of  the  fellows  came  to  see 
me,  a  sacrifice  which  I  can  never  have  a  chance  to 
repay.  All  of  the  boys  but  one  who  flew  with 
me  are  dead  now.  I  am  sure  that  in  their  life  of 
hard  service  there  was  no  conflict  more  exacting 
than  the  day-by-day  visit  to  this  loathsome  hospi- 
tal. 

As  for  Madame,  I  came  to  long  more  and  more 
for  the  sight  of  that  stiff  white  skirt,  that  separate 
look  and  crooning  "Mon  fits."  I  stayed  so  long 
that  the  separate  look  became  just  a  little  more 
of  a  gift  to  me  than  to  others.  I  was  the  oldest 
patient  in  point  of  time,  the  youngest  in  point  of 
years.  She  treated  me  like  a  son.  Every  now  and 
then  she  would  snatch  a  moment  to  chat  with  me. 
It  was  in  one  of  these  moments  that  I  opened  up 
my  heart  to  her  on  the  subject  of  that  dark  fear 
which  lately  had  begun  to  stalk  me.  I  repeated 
to  her  my  conversation  with  the  doctor. 


188  THE  SWALLOW 

"Do  you  think,"  I  asked,  "that  I  shall  lose  this 
leg?" 

How  it  comforted  me  to  see  her  laugh  away  the 
suggestion !  That  was  exactly  what  I  wanted. 

"You're  sure  there's  no  danger?"  said  I. 

"Absolutely  no,"  said  she.  "He's  a  clever  fel- 
low, that  doctor.  If  you  stay  with  him,  he'll 
bring  you  through." 

After  that  I  was  radiantly  happy.  If  I  could 
just  see  the  nurse  in  Paris  and  then  go  back  to 
my  job!  If  only  my  fight  up  there  in  the  air 
and  my  other  one  against  weakness  and  thirst  were 
not  in  vain,  I  could  stand  the  filth  and  heat  and 
pain. 

And  then  came  the  change  which  made  all  my 
previous  sufferings  seem  as  naught.  The  skin  on 
my  hips  had  broken  and  festered.  July  heat  and 
the  solutions  that  were  used  kept  my  bed  per- 
petually wet.  For  days  I  would  lie  without  mov- 
ing an  inch  in  a  reeking  mass  of  blood,  pus  and 
perspiration.  Only  when  my  temperature  went  so 
many  degrees  above  normal  would  my  dressings 
be  changed.  This  was  usually  about  every  fourth 
day.  Then  as  I  was  lifted  up  for  the  trip  to  the 
dressing-table  the  hole  in  the  bed  made  by  my 
body  would  be  black  with  blood  and  matter.  In 
the  hospitals  of  to-day,  with  their  marvellous  dis- 


THE  SWALLOW  189 

tribution  of  nurses  and  supplies,  such  a  condition 
would  be  a  disgrace.  Then  it  could  not  be  helped. 

I  was  also  getting  such  cramps  that  I  asked  the 
doctor  if  he  couldn't  straighten  my  leg. 

"I've  been  going  to  tell  you,  my  child,"  he  said 
hesitatingly,  "that  I  was  afraid  you'd  have  to 
have  another  operation." 

"Hurrah!"  I  shouted.  "Bully  for  you,  Doc! 
That's  the  best  news  I've  heard  since  we  licked  the 
crown  prince !" 

"My  dear  boy,  are  you" — he  felt  for  the 
American  slang  he  loved — "becoming  nut-like?" 

"No,"  I  answered  with  a  grin,  "but  I  should  go 
nutty  soon  if  something  didn't  happen.  I  need  a 
change,  Doc.  Anything  would  be  better  than  this. 
Let's  have  that  little  cop'  right  away  before  you 
forget  it !" 

"You're  a  good  subject,"  laughed  the  doctor, 
getting  me  on  the  table  without  more  ceremony. 
"This  time  I  shall  not  even  have  to  strap  your 
hands.  Now  just  wait  a  second  till  I  open  up 
this  fellow  over  here." 

He  had  exactly  the  air  of  a  grocer  saying  to  a 
friend,  "One  moment,  till  I  cut  off  some  cheese 
for  this  customer." 

From  my  own  table  I  watched  the  other  opera- 
tion. When  the  doctor  finally  turned  back  to 


190  THE  SWALLOW 

me,  his  apron  red  and  dripping  as  always,  the  man 
was  gasping. 

"He's  gone,"  said  the  surgeon  cheerfully,  with 
no  thought  that  his  casual  air  might  not  prove 
bracing  to  me.  Indeed  it  did  not  trouble  me.  I 
was,  however,  somewhat  disturbed  by  the  sunny 
opulence  with  which  the  orderly,  listening  to  talk 
near  him,  was  pouring  chloroform  on  my  mask. 

"Make  him  give  it  to  me  easier,  Doc,"  I  begged. 

Brushing  him  away,  the  doctor  finished  giving 
me  the  drug.  I  thrilled  off  into  a  flight  more 
intoxicating  than  anything  I  had  ever  known. 

The  ecstasy  was  short.  My  sciatic  nerve  had 
been  partly  severed  by  one  portion  of  the  bullet. 
Now  when  my  leg  was  stretched  out  for  the  first 
time,  all  the  strands  of  the  main  nerve,  which  is  as 
big  as  a  finger,  snapped  off. 

An  explosive  bullet  in  my  hip,  that  bleeding 
journey  through  the  barbed  wire,  probings,  dress- 
ings, thirst,  bedsores,  cramp — these  were  mere 
discomforts  compared  to  the  agony  that  dragged 
me  now  from  under  the  sheltering  oblivion  of 
ether  after  this  operation. 

"Qu'esf  ce  que  c'esf  muth-muth?"  asked  an 
aviator  in  the  bed  next  mine.  In  a  strangled  way 
I  had  been  crying  for  my  mother. 

Once  that  night  I  started  up  from  a  deep- 


THE  SWALLOW  191 

drugged  sleep  with  the  sense  of  some  one  looking 
at  me.  It  was  my  doctor.  He  was  breathing  fast 
and  his  hair  was  tousled.  He  had  evidently  hur- 
ried from  somewhere  to  my  bedside.  The  anxiety 
in  his  face  arrested  me. 

"Shall  I  be  all  right,  Doc?  Shall  I  be  as  good 
as  new?" 

"I  hope  so,  my  little  one;  I  hope  so." 

His  look,  his  tone,  his  eyes  which  slid  away 
from  mine — these  told  me  mercilessly  what  he 
would  not  say.  The  dimly  lighted  ward  turned 
black,  so  black  that  I  did  not  see  him  leave.  My 
heart  went  down,  down  through  endless  sick  dis- 
tances. I  knew  now  what  I  was  coming  back  to. 

Before  this,  except  for  those  few  horrible  days 
when  I  had  feared  amputation,  my  long  fight  had 
meant  to  me  only  these  tortured  weeks  in  bed. 
After  that  I  was  to  go  back,  young  and  vigorous, 
to  my  old  job.  When,  up  there  in  the  air,  I  had 
chosen  the  middle  road  between  a  glorious  living 
or  more  glorious  dying,  I  had  not  thought  of  its 
leading  elsewhere.  Youth  was  the  talisman  I  had 
taken  with  me  on  that  journey.  Twenty!  What 
could  happen  to  twenty  except  a  stern,  brief  bout 
with  pain  from  which  youth  would  emerge  victor- 
ious, but  youthful  still — twenty  crowned  by  con- 
flict! 


192  THE  SWALLOW 

Ah,  and  what  really  lay  before  me  on  the  mid- 
dle road?  Age  in  youth.  I  might  spend  the  rest 
of  my  life  in  a  wheeled  chair.  Perhaps  I  might 
watch  the  boys  flying,  I  who  had  meant  to  fly  so 
far,  I  who  should  never  fly  again. 

Why  had  I  fought  death  there  in  the  air,  why 
had  I  gone  through  these  hideous  days,  pitting  my 
will  against  weakness  and  thirst?  Was  it  for  this, 
to  be  lame,  crippled,  a  burden  for  the  rest  of  my 
existence? 

My  mental  pain,  as  violent  as  that  of  my  tor- 
tured body,  lasted  all  through  the  day  and  night. 
Then  in  the  agonised  days  that  followed  nothing 
was  left  of  me  but  tormented  flesh.  My  mind  was 
in  a  stupor.  My  will  was  dead.  I  was  not  even 
groping.  No  longer  an  active  force,  my  brain  be- 
came only  a  listless  page  upon  which  were  written 
haphazard  bits  of  memory  and  thought. 

A  sick  man's  thoughts  are  often  like  that.  And 
I  was  sick  now,  sick  in  body  and  spirit  as  I  had 
never  been  before.  In  those  moments,  half  con- 
scious, half  drugged,  it  isn't  the  big  things  of  life 
that  come  back.  It's  the  song,  the  almost  forgot- 
ten verse  that  haunts.  So  now  in  me,  among  the 
mouse-like,  scampering  thoughts,  gnawed  always 
one  fragment  of  poetry : 


THE  SWALLOW  193 

"My  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a  broken  wing." 

This  line,  read  I  know  not  where  or  when, 
buried  under  years  of  forgetfulness,  came  and 
went  and  came  again  until  I  thought  I  should  go 
mad. 

Yes,  day  after  day  my  life  had  crept,  day  upon 
day  it  was  creeping.  My  fingers  were  spread  on 
the  coverlet,  as  bleached  and  bony  as  a  spray  of 
coral.  Laying  my  right  hand  over  my  left,  I  slid 
the  under  one  out  and  put  it  on  top.  I  piled  one 
hand  on  the  other  till  I  could  reach  no  higher. 
That  had  become  my  life.  Each  day  it  slid  from 
under  at  night.  Morning  lifted  it  to  the  top  of 
another.  It  was  like  the  wool  my  mother  used  to 
card,  one  carding  stacked  upon  another  until  the 
pile,  soft  and  thick,  grew  too  tall  for  childish  eyes 
to  follow.  My  days  had  thickened ;  their  pile  was 
growing  tall. 

My  mother,  ah,  my  mother!  She  who  had  al- 
ways been  to  me  a  battle-cry,  she  whose  name  I 
had  flung  to  the  drowning  air  when  I  had  made 
my  fight  for  life  there  above  the  clouds!  Why 
was  it  now  that  the  memory  of  her  could  no  longer 
bring  back  my  courage4?  When  I  crept  home  on 
crutches  she  would  be  waiting  for  me  on  the  porch 
as  she  used  to  wait  when  I  came  home  from  school, 
her  apron  snowy  as  her  hair,  the  smell  of  hot  bis- 


194  THE  SWALLOW 

cuits  following  through  the  open  door,  on  her  dear, 
dark  face  love,  love  ineffable.  My  broken  wing 
would  make  no  difference  to  her;  I  should  be  dear- 
er to  her  now  than  ever  before.  Yet  as  I  saw  my- 
self in  her  eyes,  saw  her  pity  coming  forever  be- 
tween me  and  a  changed  world,  I  realised  more 
heartbreakingly  just  what  that  changed  world 
would  be.  That  now  she  must  always  be  making 
it  up  to  me — scalding  tears  for  her  and  for  myself 
broke  through  my  prisoned  mind. 

"My  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a  broken  wing." 

— Again  the  scampering  thoughts  after  that 
gnawing  refrain. 

Once  I  shot  an  old  stray  torn  in  our  back  yard. 
He  kicked,  then  tumbled  over  and  over  before  he 
began  creeping.  It  was  my  first  shot  and  I  fired 
again  to  put  him  out  of  his  misery.  I  never  could 
forget  his  face  as  he  looked  at  me.  He  didn't 
think  I'd  do  it.  That's  the  way  men  kick  and  curl 
up  into  shavings,  then  creep  off  on  a  broken  wing. 

What  was  that4?  Through  the  open  windows 
of  the  ward,  across  the  surf  of  surging  guns,  fell 
splashes  of  music.  A  band  was  playing  "Sympa- 
thy." Just  two  years  ago  at  the  Texas  fort  I  had 
danced  with  Jasmine  on  those  waves  of  melody. 
She  had,  I  remembered,  a  soft  allure  in  her  eyes. 


THE  SWALLOW  195 

So  had  the  girl  that  used  to  give  me  bread  from 
the  New  Orleans  bakery.  So  had  the  girl  that 
used  to  take  my  order  in  the  Paris  cabby's  cafe. 

Always,  everywhere,  I  had  met  eyes  that  soft- 
ened alluringly.  Should  I  ever  meet  them  again  ? 
Should  I  ever  dance  again?  Never  dance  again! 
I  had  not  thought  of  that.  I  looked  down  the  row 
of  beds  and  my  eyes  widened  with  the  full  terror 
of  what  I  had  lost. 

"My  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a  broken  wing." 

Yes,  I  should  go  creeping  to  Paris  but  not  to 
those  gay  little  dinners  where  the  nurse  with  the 
blue  eyes  would  laugh  at  me  across  our  comer 
table.  Through  these  pestilent  weeks  there  had 
been  one  invigorating  thought.  When  my  long- 
ing for  her  would  become  as  intolerable  as  my 
thirst  had  been,  I  would  close  my  eyes  and  sum- 
mon her.  In  a  moment  I  could  forget  the  rows 
of  cots  with  their  human  fragments,  the  gasps  of 
dying  men,  the  curses  of  those  who  must  live,  even 
my  own  increasing  pain.  For  the  miracle  of  her 
presence  was  upon  me.  The  tonic  laugh,  the  ten- 
der, enfolding  glance,  the  moment  when  I  would 
first  make  her  believe  my  love,  the  moment  when 
she  would  let  me  know  hers — in  the  very  hope 
of  these  lay  healing. 


196  THE  SWALLOW 

But  now !  There  would  be  no  more  promise  in 
her  eyes,  only  pity.  She  would  be  taking  me  out, 
not  I  her;  she  would  be  taking  me  to  the  Bois  in 
a  wheeled  chair.  She  would  protect  me  as  she 
had  the  crippled  soldier  in  the  Dublin  station. 
Stuffing  my  pillow  in  my  mouth  so  that  no  one 
would  hear  me,  I  cried  as  I  had  never  cried  in  my 
whole  life. 

Pity!  That  was  all  there  was  left  for  me  in 
this  world.  Her  pity!  That  I  could  not  bear. 
My  brain,  which  had  so  long  seemed  a  mere  list- 
less page,  was  at  last  beginning  to  write — write  its 
defiance  to  a  world  of  pitying  eyes. 

In  one  blinding  second  I  knew  what  I  wanted. 
It  was  death.  Twice  before  it  had  seemed  the 
easiest  way.  Now  it  was  the  only  way.  Now 
everything  in  me  cried  out  for  death — death  the 
prize  to  be  wrested  from  mocking  Life.  With 
rage  in  my  heart  at  life,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
die. 

Each  anguished  day  I  was  growing  weaker. 
Each  anguished  day  I  was  drawing  nearer  that 
radiant  goal  where  the  I  should  cease  to  be.  At 
last  it  came,  the  sure  moment.  Peace,  deep  and 
immense,  descended  upon  me.  I  was  falling  soft- 
ly, smoothly  into  death. 


THE  SWALLOW  197 

"He's  dying,"  said  a  French  soldier  who  had 
been  calling  with  a  friend  upon  my  neighbour. 

"Yes,"  responded  the  other  as  they  started  for 
the  door.  Then  pausing  by  my  bed  he  added,  "He 
has  fought  long,  the  little  American,  but  now 
helas!  he  has  lost  the  will  to  fight." 

Lost  the  will  to  fight!  The  low,  quick  voice, 
the  pitying  disposal  of  me — how  was  it  that  these 
pierced  my  twilit  soul;  that  they  reached  some 
strata  of  obstinacy  which  nothing  else,  not  even 
my  mother,  had  been  able  to  touch?  In  a  second 
I  saw  myself  for  what  I  was,  a  pitiable  coward, 
giving  up  life  because  it  was  no  longer  easy.  Now, 
if  ever,  the  world  needed  men,  needed  every  atom 
of  usefulness,  however  curtailed,  to  carry  on  the 
battle  against  slavery.  Yet  because  I  could  not 
be  useful  in  the  way  I  wanted 

Another  undertow  of  drugged  pain,  of  drugging 
weakness.  The  light  behind  me  was  growing  dim- 
mer. Life  now  seemed  like  the  lamp  in  the  win- 
dow of  the  cottage  we  are  leaving.  I  had  a  mo- 
ment's heartbreaking  desolation  at  the  thought  of 
that  leaving.  The  lamp  in  the  window,  the  cosy 
warmth  that  I  had  known  so  well — home,  life !  Yet 
over  there  on  the  far  bank  the  other  lights  called 
me.  Only  one  moment's  terror  of  leaving,  only 
one  moment's  yielding  to  that  swift  undertow,  and 


198  THE  SWALLOW 

the  unknown  lights  would  be  mine.  I  was  go- 
ing; yes,  I  was  going.  The  near  shore,  the  light 
in  the  window,  slipping.  Unless — my  God! 
There  was  only  a  second's  time!  And  then 

Even  now  I  wonder  how  I  did  it,  how  against 
the  vision  of  those  far  lights  before  me  I  pulled 
my  will  from  every  remote,  imprisoned  part  of 
me. 

"Jacques,"  I  whispered  to  the  aviator  next  me. 

He  turned  his  head. 

"Jacques — quick!  I'm  dying."  By  a  giant  ef- 
fort I  moved  my  eyes  toward  his.  "When  I  go 
to  sleep,  wake  me !  Don't  let  me " 

Utterly  exhausted  I  closed  my  eyes  again. 

'  'Reveillez-vous  !    Reveillez-vous  /" 

Jacques's  voice  called  me  back  from  the  far 
lights. 

"Oh — yes!"     I  made  myself  answer. 

Only  for  one  second.  Then  once  more  I  felt 
myself  going. 

"Reveillez-vous  !    Reveillez-vous  !" 

"Oh— yes!" 

So  over  and  over  again  we  fought  together,  the 
wounded  aviator  and  I.  For  four  hours  he  kept 
me  alive.  Then  at  six  o'clock  I  said  weakly:  "It's 
all  right,  Jacques.  I'm  not  going  to  die." 


THE  SWALLOW  199 

I  had  made  my  third  fight.  I  had  come  back 
to  stay. 

In  the  days  and  weeks  that  followed  I  had 
many  black  moods.  There  were  longs  hours  when 
that  haunting  line  of  verse  "My  life  has  crept 
so  long  on  a  broken  wing"  sounded  like  doom 
itself.  Then  it  was  I  wondered  why  I  had  come 
back  to  my  hampered  life,  why  I  had  not  listened 
to  those  lights  that  called  me  from  afar*?  What 
did  the  future  hold  for  me,  I  wondered  bitterly, 
what  use  could  I  ever  be  again,  I  and  my  broken 
wing? 

Gradually,  however,  something  was  growing  up 
in  me.  Very  faint  and  dim  at  first,  it  reached 
feebly  through  the  dark  mists.  Then,  no  longer 
groping,  it  thrust  out  strong  and  free,  and  at  last 
I  knew  why  I  had  stayed. 

Life  is  like  that  always,  I  think.  First  comes 
the  obstinate  impulse.  One  does  a  thing  instinc- 
tively, without  any  thought.  It  is  not  until  long 
afterward  that  one  sees  clearly  the  purpose  of  that 
impulse.  That  is  why  my  whole  philosophy  tar- 
ried so  late  after  my  supreme  instinct  not  to  be  a 
quitter. 

What  helped  me  most  to  this  vision  was  the  re- 
membrance of  those  crippled  men  I  had  seen  in 
Ireland  as  I  passed  through  on  my  way  to  France. 


200  THE  SWALLOW 

They  had  been  fitted  with  artificial  arms  and  legs 
and  the  one  expression  on  each  face  had  touched 
me  then  in  the  midst  of  my  confident  youth.  Now 
it  came  back  to  me  again,  that  one  repeated  look, 
and  as  I  lay  here  I  knew  that  my  own  face  was 
coming  to  wear  the  same  expression.  It  was  that 
of  radiant  gratitude  for  to-day. 

Gratitude  for  to-day !  How  few  before  this 
war  knew  anything  about  that  peace,  how  little  I 
myself  had  comprehended  it  until  these  last  few 
days !  Up  to  this  time  I  had  been  one  of  a  world 
of  little  men,  all  wondering  what  they  should  be 
doing  at  thirty,  fearing  that  they  would  not  have 
enough  by  forty,  dogged  forever  and  forever  by 
an  implacable  to-morrow.  That  is  what  I  should 
always  have  been  had  not  the  explosive  bullet 
begun  my  real  fight.  Now  I  was  healed  forever 
of  fear.  Life  could  no  longer  terrify  me  with  to- 
morrow— me  who  had  been  through  the  worst. 
From  this  time  forth  I  should  live  each  day  as  it 
came. 

But  there  was  more  than  this.  So  long  as  a 
man  is  haunted  by  what  to-morrow  can  do  to  him, 
so  long  as  his  life  is  made  up  of  fearful  limita- 
tions, he  is  always  on  the  outside  of  the  world. 
I  myself,  flying  for  France,  aware  of  the  noble 
righteousness  of  her  cause,  was  nevertheless  mere- 


THE  SWALLOW  201 

ly  conferring.  Not  until  I  lay  here  stricken  for 
France  was  I  really  absorbed  by  that  cause. 
France,  the  Allies,  Freedom — now  at  last  I  was 
part  of  the  world.  Freed  of  all  shrewd  little  per- 
sonal calculations,  freed  forever  from  fear  of  what 
would  happen  to  me,  I  saw  that  nothing  mattered 
but  the  common  cause.  Lying  here  in  this  terrible 
hospital,  I  on  my  broken  wing  was  permitted  a 
vision  of  the  world  as  a  whole  which  the  un- 
touched can  never  know.  Nothing  can  ever 
take  it  away  from  me.  It  is  life's  high  gift  to  the 
severely  wounded. 

And  after  accepting  the  worst,  the  worst  passed 
me  by. 

Still  under  the  delusion  that  his  peculiar  skill 
alone  could  save  me,  the  doctor,  who  was  finally 
ordered  to  Paris,  said  he  would  ship  me  on  to  the 
Appleton  Hospital,  where  he  would  join  me  in  a 
few  days. 

"And  remember,"  said  he,  "tell  the  physician 
there  that  I  understand  your  case  and  that  no  one 
is  to  touch  you  till  I  have  you  transferred  to  my 
own  hospital." 

So  unexpectedly,  so  accidentally  came  the  re- 
lease I  had  waited  for.  No  more  filth,  no  more 
loneliness,  no  more  horror.  I  burst  into  tears. 

The  morning  procession  had  begun.    Stretcher- 


202  THE  SWALLOW 

boxes  were  carrying  out  the  night's  harvest  of  the 
dead.  In  a  moment  all  beds  would  be  filled  again, 
mine  and  those  in  which  these  sheeted  forms  had 
lain.  At  the  doorway  the  line  was  halted  by 
Madame  who  embraced  me  in  farewell. 

"Adieu,  petit  americain!"  came  a  chorus  of 
cries  from  the  ward. 

I  looked  back  at  the  whitewashed  walls  within 
which  I  had  found  a  talisman  stronger,  surer,  more 
enduring  than  the  talisman  of  youth. 

"Adieu,  adieu,  adieu  I"  I  cried  brokenly  to  my 
gallant  comrades  of  the  middle  road. 

The  doctor  followed  my  stretcher  to  the  am- 
bulance. 

"It  will  be  a  hard  ride,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"Other  doctors,  not  knowing  your  condition,  may 
not  give  it  to  you.  I  trust  you."  He  pressed  into 
my  hand  a  pellet  of  morphine. 

It  was  a  hard  ride.  The  swinging  of  the  hos- 
pital train  hurt  unbearably.  By  this  time  I  was 
practically  a  drug  fiend;  like  gold  I  hoarded  my 
little  fund  of  forgetfulness.  But  in  the  night  I 
could  endure  no  more. 

"I'll  never  need  it  worse  than  now,"  I  decided. 

Hardly  had  I  swallowed  the  pellet  when  the 
train  doctor  for  the  first  time  that  night  bent  over 
my  berth. 


THE  SWALLOW  203 

"Suffering  much?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

I  was  surprised  when  he  took  out  his  needle. 
Should  I  tell  him?  No.  I  could  not  get  too 
much. 

"Go  ahead,  Doc,"  I  said. 

He  j  abbed  in  the  needle.  In  ten  minutes  I  was 
asleep. 

I  awoke  in  Paris. 

I  awoke  suffering  and  desolate.  For  weeks  of 
agony  I  had  thought  of  Paris  as  a  refuge.  I  had 
vaguely  expected  the  Gare  la  Chapelle  to  wipe 
away  all  pain.  I  had  vaguely  expected  it  to  be 
filled  with  friends.  As  I  lay  now  on  my  stretcher, 
waiting  with  a  hundred  others  to  be  taken  to  the 
hospitals,  I  ached  with  the  emptiness  that  follows 
expectation.  I  was  one  of  many  wounded.  That 
was  all.  The  stretcher-bearers  were  new.  Every 
face  that  I  saw  was  strange  and  uncaring.  Foster, 
I  knew,  was  out  of  town.  But  she — my  lip  quiv- 
ered— she  had  not  come  to  meet  me.  Was  she 
away  when  my  last  message  came1?  Did  she  re- 
ceive it  and  not  care*?  The  blood  beat  up  into 
my  face;  my  ear-drums  throbbed  sickeningly. 

A  French  woman  in  the  station  poured  some 
coffee  down  my  throat.  Three  drivers,  all  stran- 


204  THE  SWALLOW 

gers  to  me,  carried  me  to  a  car.  How  queer  to  go 
through  Paris  as  a  wounded  man.  Was  it  I,  was 
it  I  *?  I  kept  looking  out  of  the  back  window,  try- 
ing to  see  where  we  were  driving.  We  were  going 
through  the  Bois  to  find  the  best  roads — that  much 
I  could  see. 

Then  we  reached  the  receiving  hospital.  The 
old  familiar  spots,  the  old  familiar  faces,  only 
increased  my  desolation.  For  no  one  knew  me. 
Old  friends — doctors,  nurses,  drivers — passed  me 
by.  They  glanced  at  my  stretcher,  at  my  bleached, 
bony  face,  at  my  arms  like  matches — and  went 
on.  I  tried  to  call  out  but  was  too  weak. 

"Bob!"  By  a  terrific  effort  I  made  a  driver 
hear  me.  "Bob,  don't  you  know  me?  Byrd1?" 

"Oh,  Byrd,  by  gee!"  He  hardly  stopped  to 
greet  me.  "Boys,  take  this  stretcher  to  Miss 
Gale's  office.  She's  been  looking  for  you  every 
day  all  summer.  I'll  let  her  know." 

Ah,  her  face!  I  saw  it  through  a  glory  that 
smote  me,  a  peace  that  bore  me  up.  Pain  and 
heartache — I  had  never  known  them.  There  was 
only  one  fact  now  in  all  the  world.  That  was 
her  dear,  blinding  presence.  Shutting  my  eyes  to 
hide  the  tears,  I  tried  to  hold  up  my  arms.  I  could 
not  speak. 


THE  SWALLOW  205 

Kneeling  there  beside  me  in  her  little  office, 
she  held  me  close.  Her  tears  were  on  my  cheeks. 
My  head  slipped  to  her  shoulder.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  had  fainted — with  joy. 


CHAPTER  VI 

COMING  out  of  that  swoon,  I  knew  with  a 
sick  man's  sensibility  one  thing :  the  Stormy 
Petrel  and  the  Swallow  had  flown.  In  their  places 
were  Miss  Gale,  a  highly  specialised  surgical  nurse, 
and  her  patient,  Richard  Byrd,  a  man  sick  unto 
death,  living  only  through  a  strength  of  spirit  that 
had  grown  from  bodily  anguish. 

It  was  Miss  Gale  who  spoke  to  me  that  first 
day  as  soon  as  I  came  out  of  the  trance  of  joy. 
"And  now,"  said  she,  "you  must  have  a  bath." 

"Oh,  let  me  go  to  bed,"  I  begged  from  the 
stretcher  where  I  still  lay  strapped  to  the  board 

upon  which  the  doctor  at  V had  tied  me  for 

the  journey.  "A  day  or  so  more  doesn't  matter  to 
a  man  who  hasn't  bathed  for  six  weeks.  I'm  so 
tired!" 

"Very  well,  you  shall  go  to  bed,  then,*'  she  said. 

A  moment  more  and  I  was  carried  to  a  ward 
where  nine  other  officers  lay.  I  was  given  the  bed 
by  the  window.  I  did  not  know  until  long  after- 
wards how  difficult  it  had  been  for  my  nurse 

206 


THE  SWALLOW  207 

through  all  the  Verdun  siege,  to  keep  that  bed  for 
me. 

Worn  out  with  excitement,  lulled  by  the  white 
peace  of  the  room  and  the  secure  sense  of  home,  I 
dropped  asleep.  When  I  awoke  Miss  Gale  and  a 
man  were  bending  over  me.  He  was  a  powerful 
young  fellow  with  shming  black  eyes  and  thick 
black  hair  that  fell  in  rope-like  ridges.  I  felt  an 
instant  dislike  for  him.  Miss  Gale  introduced  him 
as  Olson,  the  ward  physician. 

"Sorry,  doctor,"  I  said,  "but  I  promised  my 

physician  at  V that  no  one  should  touch  me 

till  he  came.  He'll  be  here  this  afternoon." 

My  doctor  had  so  impressed  this  upon  me  that 
I  grew  excited  at  the  thought  of  disobeying  him. 
Seeing  my  intensity,  Miss  Gale  yielded. 

"We  might  wait  till  his  doctor  comes,  then," 
she  suggested,  and  with  a  shrug  Olson  left. 

But  by  late  afternoon  my  pain  had  increased 
and  the  doctor  had  not  come.  I  was  still  protest- 
ing, however,  that  I  could  have  no  other  surgeon. 

"I  can't  humour  you  any  longer,"  said  Miss 
Gale,  with  professional  severity.  "No  one  doctor 
is  indispensable  to  any  case  and  there  is  no  reason 
for  you  to  suffer  any  more  than  you  can  help." 

She  summoned  Olson  and  when  he  came  I  made 
one  last  protest. 


208  THE  SWALLOW 

"If  you  take  off  the  board,  don't  cut  the  dress- 
ings," I  implored.  "I  promised  my  doctor." 

"All  right,  I  won't,"  said  Olson. 

At  an  exclamation  I  looked  around.  He  had 
taken  off  the  bandage! 

"You  promised  you  wouldn't  cut  the  dressings," 
I  said. 

"Absolutely  necessary,  my  dear  fellow.  Miss 
Gale,  come  here!" 

She  gave  a  little  cry  when  she  saw  me. 

As  I  have  said,  nothing  but  my  face  and  hands 

had  been  washed  while  I  was  at  V .  Now 

my  skin  had  entirely  changed.  I  was  black.  Next 
day  they  began  the  task  of  bathing  me.  For  this 
purpose  they  used  soft  soap  and  gasoline.  It  was 
more  than  a  month  before  I  was  entirely  clean. 

Because  of  the  wearisome  trip  I  had  undergone, 
I  was  given  that  first  night  my  usual  amount  of 
morphine.  Still  soothed  by  the  sense  of  home- 
coming, still  cherished  by  merry  blue  eyes  that 
could  soften  to  tears,  I  slept. 

The  next  day  my  pain  was  intense.  The  bed- 
sores, too,  which  I  had  developed  at  V were 

frightful.  For  these  the  nurse  tried  an  air  mat- 
tress; but  the  heat  of  the  rubber  made  the  sores 
worse.  Finally  she  got  a  special  bed  constructed 
for  just  such  a  case  as  mine. 


THE  SWALLOW  209 

The  head  surgeon  was  out  of  town  and  my 

doctor  from  V had  not  yet  come,  so  I  was 

still  entirely  under  the  care  of  Olson.  He  was  a 
splendid  specimen  of  American  vigour.  He  had 
come  to  France  only  for  adventure.  He  had  not 
a  care  in  the  world,  either  for  himself  or  any  one 
else.  He  had  never  known  what  pain  meant  and 
he  had  not  the  imagination  to  conceive  it.  So 
when,  that  second  night,  I  asked  for  my  morphine, 
he  refused  it.  I  was  by  now  practically  a  drug 
fiend.  And  to  be  cut  off  suddenly  was  appalling. 
So,  swallowing  my  pride  and  my  distaste  for  the 
man,  I  begged  him  to  cut  me  off  gradually. 

"My  dear  fellow "  and  seating  himself  be- 
side my  bed,  the  ward  doctor  gave  me  a  long  talk 
on  the  evils  of  morphine. 

"Look  here,  Doc,"  I  broke  in  at  last,  "you  can't 
tell  me  anything  about  the  horrors  of  dope.  I'm  a 
dope  fiend.  That's  just  the  point.  Now  treat  me 
like  an  intelligent  man,  not  like  a  baby.  I'm  in 
ghastly  pain.  You  know  and  I  know  that  the 
human  structure  can't  stand  everything.  A  man 
can  die  from  brutal  pain  alone.  Now  I've  lived 
on  morphine  straight  for  three  weeks.  If  I  asked 
you  to  keep  up  my  allowance,  that  would  be  dif- 
ferent. But  I  ask  you  just  to  cut  me  off  gradually." 

I  sank  back  exhausted. 


210  THE  SWALLOW 

"It  won't  do,"  he  said,  with  a  patronising  shake 
of  his  head.  "Some  day  you'll  thank  me.  I'll  tell 
the  night  nurse  to  give  you  some  aspirin." 

Aspirin!  How  I  hated  him  as  he  walked  off! 
How  I  hated  that  glossy,  ridge-like  hair,  the  clear 
black  and  white  of  his  eyes !  I  clenched  my  hands 
in  weak,  helpless  fury.  If  I  were  cut  off  at  once 
from  any  alleviating  drug,  I  should  die  of  pain. 
That  I  knew. 

Then  as  I  lay  there  I  thought  of  those  first  days 

at  V when  every  nerve  in  my  body  had  been 

gnawed  by  the  longing  for  water.  But  that  hun- 
ger was  as  nothing  compared  to  this.  In  the  agony 
of  my  craving  I  forgot  the  agony  of  my  body.  My 
mother,  my  nurse — everything  that  was  I — was 
lost  in  my  abject  longing  for  the  thing  to  make  me 
forget  them  all. 

I  closed  my  eyes.  I  tried  to  shut  out  the  raven- 
ous vision.  But  the  closed  lids  only  bound  it  more 
tightly.  I  and  the  longing,  the  longing  and  I — 
together  we  rode.  And  my  heart  grew  so  feeble 
that  I  thought  I  was  dying. 

Then  suddenly  like  a  flake  a  hand  fell  on  my 
forehead.  It  didn't  go  away  like  a  flake,  however. 
It  just  stayed  and  cooled  me  and  kept  drawing  out 
of  me  my  fevered  longing.  Ah,  my  nurse !  That 
.was  what  her  hand  always  did  to  me.  It  was  not 


THE  SWALLOW  211 

like  the  touch  of  Jasmine,  pressing  in  her  ruthless 
glamour,  making  you  conscious  every  minute  that 
she  was  she.  Instead,  it  kept  drawing  out  from 
you  all  unloveliness. 

I  was  thinking  that  when  I  opened  my  eyes. 
And  then  as  I  looked  at  her  it  all  came  back.  I 
was  beaten  by  wave  after  wave  of  savage  hunger. 
At  that  moment  there  was  nothing  I  would  not 
have  done  to  get  morphine. 

As  I  lay  there  looking  at  her  it  came  back  to 
me — the  sick  man's  craft  which  had  once  made 
me  think  that  if  I  could  only  look  as  thirsty  as  I 
was,  Dover  Manley  would  get  me  something  to 
drink. 

What  if  she  were  a  nurse?  What  if  it  were 
against  the  regulations'? 

"I  ahan't  see  you  again  until  to-morrow.  Is 
there  anything  you  want  before  I  go*?" 

The  cool  silver  kindness  of  her  voice  fell  across 
my  abject  craving.  At  that  moment  I  hated  her 
goodness,  hated  that  tone  in  her  voice  that  always 
expected  the  best  of  you.  If  she  had  ever  seemed 
once  on  her  guard  against  the  worst  in  you — I 
clenched  my  hands  in  helpless  fury.  No,  I  could 
not  ask  my  nurse  to  get  me  morphine. 

But  as  I  saw  her  white  figure  drift  through  the 
evening  dimness  of  the  ward  my  resolve  to  get 


212  THE  SWALLOW 

what  I  wanted  was  -just  as  violent  as  ever.  Ig- 
nobly I  began  to  run  over  all  the  people  I  had 
known  in  Paris.  Foster"?  Out  of  town.  Besides 
he  wasn't  that  kind.  Neither  were  any  of  my 
other  old  friends  that  kind.  But  who,  who*? 
Surely  there  must  be  somebody,  some  mere  ac- 
quaintance, perhaps,  some  kindly,  unscrupulous 
soul  that  would  help  a  poor  slave  to  more  of  his 
slavery. 

And  then  all  of  a  sudden  it  came  to  me — the 
memory  of  the  little  cocotte  whose  gloves  I  had  ap- 
propriated. I  had  smiled,  half  in  amusement, 
half  in  embarrassment,  when  she  had  said,  "If 
you  ever  need  a  friend."  But  on  that  memor- 
able night  of  my  first  dinner  with  my  nurse  when 
I  had  returned  the  gloves  to  the  little  girl,  she  had 
prevailed  upon  me  to  take  her  address.  Ah,  yes, 
thank  fortune,  I  had  it.  The  mere  fact  of  writing 
it — the  glamour  of  the  evening — something — had 
impressed  it  upon  my  mind.  She  was  Mademoi- 
selle Marpas.  She  lived  on  the  Rue  Valette,  near 
the  Pantheon.  Hardly  able  to  conceal  my  eager- 
ness, I  called  the  night  nurse.  I  directed  her  to 
send  to  the  Rue  Valette  and  beg  Mademoiselle 
Marpas  to  visit  me  next  day.  The  nurse  raised 
her  eyebrows  a  little.  What  did  I  care  what  she 
was  thinking1?  To-morrow,  yes,  to-morrow,  I 


THE  SWALLOW  213 

should  have  my  drug.  And  through  the  long  tor- 
ture of  the  night  I  lay,  hoping  she  would  come  to 
me,  fearing  lest  she  might  have  moved  away. 

Early  the  next  morning  in  she  walked,  my  little 
cocotte.  With  her  short  skirt  and  her  gay  little 
hat  tilted  over  her  long,  narrow  blue  eyes,  she  was 
like  a  saucy  paroket.  A  little  ripple  went  over 
the  ward.  It  was  not  unusual  for  parokets  to 
visit  the  ward,  but  this  was  an  extremely  saucy 
one.  And  as  she  was  conducted  to  my  bed,  her 
voice  carried  to  every  corner  of  the  room. 

"Mais,  non.  There  is.  some  mistake.  I  never 
saw  you  before,  monsieur" 

It  was  even  more  embarrassing  than  that  night 
at  the  cafe  when  I  had  returned  her  gloves.  But 
with  my  eye  on  the  door  where  I  dreaded  every 
moment  to  see  the  figure  of  my  nurse,  I  managed 
to  recall  to  her  our  former  meetings.  She  remem- 
bered then  and  once  again  she  was  covering  my 
hand  with  kisses.  "Oh,  mon  pauvre,  mon  pauvre" 
she  kept  saying  over  and  over  again,  in  that  crink- 
ly, croony  way  that  Madame  at  V had,  that 

every  French  woman's  voice  falls  into  so  magi- 
cally. 

I  interrupted  her.  "Morphine,"  I  whispered, 
"I  must  have  it.  Do  you'  know  any  place  where 
you  could  get  it  for  me1?" 


214  THE  SWALLOW 

She  nodded  her  head.  She  kissed  my  hands. 
And  as  she  left  me  another  ripple  went  over  the 
ward.  It  was  just  ending  when  my  nurse  entered 
the  room. 

She  had  not  recognised  the  saucy  little  girl. 
She  had  not  even  known  that  she  was  visiting  me. 
I  actually  gloated  over  the  realisation  of  it  as  I 
watched  her  approach  my  bed. 

No,  she  did  not  know  that  morning.  But  in 
the  afternoon,  as  luck  would  have  it,  Mile.  Mar- 
pas  came  in  with  my  pellets  just  as  the  nurse  was 
leaving.  The  two  women  stared  at  each  other  and 
I  stared  at  them  both. 

"This  is — old  friend  of  mine,  Miss  Gale,"  I 
muttered  in  confusion.  "Gloves — I  took  hers,  re- 
member I  told  you?" 

Quite  evidently  Miss  Gale  did  remember.  The 
memory  of  that  night  at  the  restaurant  was  gath- 
ering in  the  blue  eyes  even  before  I  spoke.  Yet 
the  incident  of  the  gloves  did  not  explain  just  ex- 
actly why  Mile.  Marpas  happened  to  be  here  this 
instant  nor  why  through  all  this  interlude  of  pain 
I  had  managed  to  keep  in  touch  with  her.  I  saw 
bewilderment — perhaps  even  a  moment's  hurt — 
cross  her  face. 

I  saw  them — ah,  yes,  but  all  in  a  furious  sudden 
I  did  not  care.  All  I  cared  for  was  those  three 


THE  SWALLOW  215 

milky  pellets  in  the  little  cocotte's  hand.  And 
as  I  stared  into  the  long  narrow  blue  eyes  of  Mile. 
Marpas  I  was  blind  and  stiff  and  sick  with  the 
thought  of  the  releasing  joy  now  so  tantalisingly 
near,  so  tantalisingly  delayed.  Oh,  when  would 
my  nurse  go?  When  would  she  leave  me  alone 
with  the  drug  for  which  I  had  waited  all  that  long 
night?  Careless  now  of  what  Miss  Gale  would 
think,  I  fixed  upon  her  one  look  of  dumb,  ruth- 
less misery. 

She  met  the  look  and  the  little  hurt  in  her  eyes 
deepened.  Bah!  What  did  I  care?  And  when 
at  last  she  turned  her  back  upon  us  I  grabbed  the 
cocotte's  hand. 

"Quick,  for  God's  sake,"  I  whispered,  "I'm  go- 
ing crazy." 

It  was  about  two  hours  after  that  when  Miss 
Gale  again  returned  to  my  bedside.  By  this  time 
every  nerve  of  my  body  had  been  smoothed  down. 
I  looked  at  my  nurse  in  a  kind  of  rosy  compunc- 
tion. Oh,  how  good  she  was,  how  much  better 
than  any  one  else  in  this  world!  As  I  chatted 
with  her  I  became  wildly  joyous. 

When  she  first  came  up  to  me  there  may  have 
been  still  on  her  face  a  little  of  the  proud  hurt 
with  which  she  had  left  me.  But  as  I  grew  more 
and  more  talkative,  as  she  heard  my  gay  jokes, 


216  THE  SWALLOW 

her  look  slowly  changed.  Quite  suddenly  she 
picked  up  my  hand  and  took  my  pulse. 

She  suspected  me.  No,  she  knew.  Even  now 
on  the  full  tide  of  my  drug,  I  was  aghast.  For  I 
realised  that  it  would  be  her  duty  as  a  nurse  to 
report  me  to  Dr.  Olson.  And  as  I  looked  at  the 
silent  white  figure,  as  I  felt  my  blood  flow  up  to 
those  cool  white  fingers — flow  and  ebb  away — 
every  atom  of  my  self-respect  disappeared.  More 
than  that.  I  lost  the  man's  wish  to  look  well  in  his 
beloved's  eyes.  But  in  that  one  long,  beseeching 
look  which  I  did  give  to  her  I  laid  bare  all  of  my 
weakness. 

Without  a  word  she  turned  away  from  me. 
And  when  several  minutes  later  Dr.  Olson  came 
over  to  my  bed  my  heart  went  down  at  what  I 
knew  he  was  about  to  say. 

"Well,  Byrd,"  he  commenced  and  his  hard  red 
cheeks  wagged  in  triumph. 

I  was  too  miserable  to  speak  and  I  could  hardly 
believe  it  when,  taking  my  pulse,  he  announced 
complacently,  "Doing  fine,  old  man.  Eyes  much 
brighter.  Pulse  better.  See  what  I  told  you, 
huh?  Why,  you'd  have  been  a  regular  drug- 
fiend  if  you  hadn't  met  up  with  me." 

Oh,  how  good  she  was,  how  much  better  than 
any  one  else  in  the  world !  As  Olson  left  me  for 


THE  SWALLOW  217 

the  night,  as  I  took  one  of  the  magic  pellets  which 
Mile.  Marpas  had  left  me,  I  blessed  the  pity  that 
could  transcend  all  sense  of  duty.  My  nurse  had 
known,  yet  she  had  not  told. 

The  little  cocotte  came  the  next  day  with  more 
morphine.  This  time  I  diminished  the  doses.  The 
next  time  she  brought  me  some  pellets  I  reduced 
them  still  more.  And  by  the  end  of  two  weeks  I 
was  able  to  get  along  with  only  the  bromides 
which  the  night  nurse  gave  me. 

In  the  meantime  the  doctor  from  V had  fin- 
ally come.  He  was  many  days  later  than  his 
schedule  and  Miss  Gale  had  refused  to  allow  me 
to  keep  that  old  promise  to  him.  It  was  indeed 
fortunate.  Had  I  waited  for  his  attention  I 
should  soon  have  been  beyond  the  need  of  it.  I 
had  been  long  enough  the  victim  of  his  kindly  ego- 
tism, of  a  judgment  that  had  placed  his  knowl- 
edge of  my  case  against  care,  sanitation  and  sci- 
ence. Had  he  only  shipped  me  to  Paris  when  I 
was  first  wounded  I  should  have  been  spared 
much.  As  it  was,  I  reached  there  just  in  time. 
Just  in  time  I  came  to  my  nurse. 

It  was  one  morning  just  after  I  had  broken  off 
the  morphine  habit  that  Miss  Gale  first  brought 
to  me  the  surgeon  who  was  to  bring  me  finally 
from  my  twilight  world.  He  was  a  big  man,  grey 


218  THE  SWALLOW 

and  grave  and  steady;  and  no  familiarity  with 
suffering  could  ever  make  him  careless  of  it.  Now 
as  he  looked  down  at  me  there  was  such  a  quick, 
sweet  touching  of  his  spirit  that  I  loved  him  from 
that  moment.  And  I  can  never  say  enough  of 
this  man  whose  kindliness  came  from  real  seeing 
and  who  was  as  shocked  by  a  sight  of  my  suffering 
as  he  must  have  been  at  that  of  the  first  wounded 
man  he  ever  saw. 

As  he  examined  my  wound,  there  was  none  of 

the  shallow  cheeriness  of  the  doctor  at  V . 

Tenderly  as  he  could  he  told  me  the  truth. 

"You're  in  a  pretty  bad  way,  my  boy,"  said  he, 
"but  I  think  I  know  what  you  need  and  I'm  go- 
ing to  try  to  make  you  glad  to  be  alive  once 
more." 

I  looked  from  his  face  to  that  of  my  nurse. 

"Do  you  think  in  time — not  right  now,  of 
course — but  later  on — oh,  doctor,  do  you  think 
I  can  walk  on  crutches'?" 

Sharply  my  nurse  turned  aside  her  head;  and 
when  she  turned  it  back  to  me  I  could  see  that  her 
lashes  were  wet.  Ah,  her  pity,  her  wonderful 
pity!  How  it  followed  me  through  everything, 
how  it  seemed  to  make  more  radiant  now  the  an- 
swer of  my  doctor ! 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  "I  can't  promise  any- 


THE  SWALLOW  219 

thing.  But  I'm  going  to  try  to  get  you  out  of  this 
bed." 

God!  What  a  journey  was  before  me!  It 
was  well  I  did  not  know.  First  of  all,  the  head 
surgeon  put  me  in  an  extension.  As  the  ball  and 
socket  in  my  hip  had  been  shot  away  this  process 
was  necessary  to  prevent  my  leg  from  becoming 
any  shorter  than  it  already  was. 

The  extension  was  extremely  painful.  That 
you  may  understand  why  this  was  so,  let  me  ex- 
plain. Over  a  pulley  was  a  cord  with  leaden 
weights  which  were  attached  to  my  leg  by  strips 
of  canvas  glued  to  the  skin.  These  weights,  which 
made  continual  tension  on  my  leg,  were  increased 
by  half  a  pound  a  day  until  twenty  pounds  were 
reached.  Thus  the  muscles,  instead  of  contract- 
ing as  they  had  at  V ,  were  held  taut  and  the 

bone  was  allowed  to  grow. 

The  stretching  of  the  muscles  meant  an  inces- 
sant ache;  the  glue  kept  my  flesh  itching;  the 
nerves,  shut  off  from  any  air,  burned  until  my  leg 
seemed  a  red-hot  iron.  As  I've  said  before,  my 
sciatic  nerve  had  snapped;  and  it  was  because  of 
this  fact  that  I  now  developed  foot-drop  and  had 
to  have  a  five-pound  weight  attached  to  my  foot. 
Meanwhile  the  bedsores  I  had  developed  at  V 


220  THE  SWALLOW 

became  so  painful  that  I  had  to  lie  on  a  rubber 
ring.  At  the  height  of  my  misery  I  had  an  abscess 
in  my  ear.  And  at  the  height  of  the  abcess  I  got 
the  mumps ! 

The  grotesque  malady  of  childhood  seemed  to 
rob  my  suffering  of  all  dignity.  To  see  in  a  mir- 
ror my  skeleton-like  face  swollen  into  bags,  to 
have  what  little  food  I  could  take  poured  down 
my  throat — these  ludicrous  details  overcame  me 
more  thoroughly  than  all  the  severe  suffering  that 
had  gone  before  them.  During  the  ten  days  that 
I  was  mump-bound,  I  lost  for  the  moment  all  the 

uplift  of  those  last  days  at  V .  I  was  in  fact 

as  peevish  as  a  six-year-old.  The  only  thing  I 
wanted  was  my  nurse.  And  when  she  could  not 
be  with  me  I  sulked  all  the  time.  She  oughtn't 
to  neglect  me  like  this,  I  thought.  It  was  unjust, 
it  was  cruel. 

One  morning  as  I  lay  there  with  hot  applica- 
tions on  those  foolish  pouches  I  watched  her  com- 
ing through  the  ward.  She  never  glanced  in  my 
direction.  She  was  busy  looking  at  each  man's 
dressings.  I  saw  the  look  that  a  young  French- 
man was  giving  her.  There  was  the  same  impa- 
tient wanting  of  her  on  his  face  that  there  must 
have  been  on  my  own.  And  for  the  first  time  I 
realised  that  Miss  Gale  was  not  my  nurse.  She 


THE  SWALLOW  221 

was  the  young  Frenchman's  there — she  was  every- 
body's. And  with  a  sudden  aching  emptiness  I 
realised  I  had  been  measuring  Miss  Gale's  inter- 
est in  me  by  my  own  interest  in  her.  I  recalled 
now  the  tears  with  which  she  had  met  me — how, 
unconsciously,  against  my  clearer  vision,  I  had 
been  treasuring  them. 

She  was  now  at  the  bed  next  to  mine.  A  mid- 
dle-aged chasseur  who  had  lost  both  his  arms  was 
lying  here.  As  she  turned  back  the  covers  to  look 
at  his  dressings,  something  in  the  whole  gesture 
of  her  body  stabbed  me  with  a  sense  of  her  remote- 
ness. Heavens,  how  free  her  mind  was  of  me,  of 
me  whose  only  thought  was  of  her !  There  is  noth- 
ing comparable  to  the  loneliness  of  one  who  has 
been  imagining  closeness;  and  what  I  felt  now 
was  even  more  desperate  than  the  hurt  which, 
when  I  was  the  Swallow  and  she  was  the  Stormy 
Petrel,  she  had  given  me  that  morning  as,  tingling 
with  memories  of  her  at  our  first  little  dinner,  I 
had  come  in  from  camp  to  find  her  absorbed  in 
charts  and  business. 

She  felt  the  chasseur's  bandages.  The  whiff  of 
his  antiseptics  will  always  be  joined  sickeningly 
with  my  memory  of  that  moment.  Then  I  heard 
her  speak  to  the  ward  physician. 


222  THE  SWALLOW 

"Don't  you  think,  doctor,  that  these  bandages 
are  just  a  little  too  tight?" 

Ah,  yes,  I  thought  bitterly,  she  would  miss  no 
detail.  She  was  a  nurse,  not  a  woman.  And  the 
life  of  a  nurse — a  good  nurse,  that  is — is  one  of 
passionate  routine.  She  must  care  for  the  suffer- 
ing, not  for  the  sufferer. 

At  last  she  came  over  to  my  bed.  With  what 
was  left  of  my  face  from  the  mumps  I  looked  up 
at  her  indignantly,  reproachfully. 

Her  own  face  broke  up  into  little  nooks  and 
crannies.  For  the  first  time  I  resented  them. 

"Thpoth  I'm  funny  'nough,"  I  managed  to  ar- 
ticulate. Mumps  and  dignity  were,  I  found,  dif- 
ficult to  maintain  at  the  same  time. 

In  an  instant  the  nooks  and  crannies  disap- 
peared. "Oh,  my  poor  boy,"  she  whispered.  "It 
just  seems  the  last  straw,  doesn't  it*?"  Then  again 
her  face  and  tone  changed.  "Do  you  know  when 
I  had  the  mumps1?"  she  said.  "Why,  it  was  on 
Christmas  Day  and  I  was  just  six  years  old. 
Fancy  what  that  means !  Nothing  good  to  eat — 
swallowing  a  few  spoonfuls  of  broth  when  the  rest 
are  eating  turkey  and  mince-pie.  I  always  look 
back  on  that  as  one  of  the  tragedies  of  my  life." 

"I  dare  say  it  was  the  only  tragedy."  That  was 
what  I  might  have  said  had  not  the  beastly  mumps 


THE  SWALLOW  223 

interfered  with  the  conversational  service.  As  it 
was,  I  looked  at  her  more  resentfully  than  ever.  I 
had  the  feeling  that  she  was  talking  to  me,  was 
humouring  me  with  conversation,  just  as  if  she 
were  a  grown-up  person  trying  to  make  some  sick 
child  forget  his  illness. 

She  did  not  seem  to  notice  how  I  was  looking  at 
her.  "Never  mind,"  said  she  as  she  began  to  ex- 
amine my  dressings,  "the  mumps  will  soon  be 
over,  you  know.  And  when  you're  well  of  them — 
just  guess  what  we're  going  to  have." 

"What1?"  I  murmured  with  fretful  bitterness. 

"Why,  sweetbreads  and  mushrooms — all  sorts 
of  good  things.  A  lot  of  your  old  friends  among 
the  ambulance  corps  have  been  wanting  to  know 
what  they  could  do  for  you  and  I  told  them  they 
were  to  buy  you  something  good  to  eat.  Then 
we'll  see.  'I  am  the  cook  and  the  captain  bold  and 
the  nurse  of  the  Nancy  Brig,'  "  she  quoted  merrily 
as  she  touched  my  bandages. 

"Oh,  don't  take  any  bother  for  me,"  I  retorted 
with  rancorous  emphasis  on  the  last  word. 

At  my  words  her  face  broke  up  again  into  the 
objectionable  nooks  and  crannies.  And  when  she 
left  me  that  morning  I  felt  that  she  had  seen 
through  all  my  ungraciousness  and  was  a  little  bit 
amused  by  it. 


224  THE  SWALLOW 

That  little  scene  was  only  the  prelude  of  many 
more  phases  of  suffering.  First  of  all  an  abscess 
caused  by  the  explosive  bullet  formed  in  my  ab- 
domen. The  pain  from  this  was  intense;  and  it 
was  only  an  operation  which  relieved  the  terrible 
pressure. 

Meanwhile  my  wound  was  as  torturing  as  ever. 
Twice  a  day  Olson  dressed  it  and  at  each  dressing, 
involving  as  it  did  contact  with  the  sciatic  nerve, 
I  stuffed  my  handkerchief  into  my  mouth  and  cov- 
ered my  head  with  the  pillow  so  that  I  might 
scream  unheard.  During  this  time,  of  course,  I 
took  no  morphine.  And,  too  nervous  to  sleep  at 
night,  I  got  only  a  few  snatches  by  day.  For  one 
month  I  never  missed  the  quarter  hour  struck  all 
night  on  a  nearby  clock. 

It  was  due  to  the  Carrel  system  of  irrigation, 
which  has  saved  so  many  lives  during  the  war,  that 
my^  wound  did  gradually  begin  to  heal.  Although 
they  have  heard  of  it  vaguely,  many  people  do  not 
know  just  what  this  great  healing  irrigation  means. 
It  is  for  their  benefit  that  I  explain.  The  Carrel 
system  consists  of  a  bulb  to  which  is  attached  a 
main  tube  and  various  smaller  tubes.  The  bulb 
is  filled  with  a  solution  which  every  two  hours  is 
flushed  through  the  tubes.  In  this  way  the  whole 
body  is  sprayed  as  by  a  garden  hose. 


THE  SWALLOW  225 

But  although  this  treatment  helped  my  wound, 
the  acid  in  its  solution  irritated  the  bedsores.  In 
spite  of  all  the  care  I  was  receiving,  they  grew 
worse  and  worse.  There  were  nights  when  I  could 
not  let  my  back  touch  the  bed,  when  I  lay  on  my 
hands  until  they  cramped.  Also  other  abscesses 
developed.  Each  of  these  had  to  be  operated 
upon.  And  four  times  I  was  carried  to  the  "bil- 
liard table,"  as  was  popularly  known  the  operating 
table.  I  never  minded  these  incisions.  The  fact 
of  the  matter  was  that,  cut  off  from  morphine  as 
I  now  was,  the  ansesthetic  was  the  one  refuge 
from  pain,  the  one  escape  to  rosy  peace. 

Along  with  the  Carrel  system  were  kept  up  the 
suspension  weights  on  my  leg.  .At  last  these  were 
removed  to  give  way  to  a  plaster  cast  in  which  I 
lived  for  many  months.  Now  from  chest  to  knee 
I  was  rolled  in  plaster  which,  though  not  much 
thicker  than  an  eggshell,  was  as  hard  as  iron. 
Windows  were  made  in  the  cast  for  my  bed-sores, 
which  at  last  began  to  improve.  Windows  were 
made,  too,  so  that  my  wound  might  be  dressed. 
Save  for  these  my  shell  was  implacable. 

Yet  in  spite  of  all  I  endured,  the  year  and  a 
half  in  this  hospital  passed  more  quickly  than  six 

weeks  at  V .  Radiant  cleanliness,  the  luxury 

of  baths  and  of  snowy  linen,  smokes  to  soothe  my 


226  THE  SWALLOW 

hours  of  pain,  above  all  the  trained  and  sym- 
pathetic care  of  women  after  the  hurried  attention 

of  those  poor  driven  orderlies  at  V ,  the  deft 

science  which  has  helped  so  many  to  come  back 
from  the  middle  road — these  were  the  miracles 
of  the  Appleton  Hospital. 

Meanwhile  what  of  the  vision  which  I  have 
called  life's  high  gift  to  the  severely  wounded? 
It  did  not  always  burn  steadily  ahead  of  me.  That 
was  too  much  to  expect.  There  were  days  when, 
pulled  down  by  bitter  undertows  of  pain,  I  longed 
again  for  death.  There  were  days  when  the  vision 
flickered  dimly.  Yet  it  was  there.  I  could  always 
come  back  to  it.  Each  time  that  I  came  back  I 
felt  more  sure  of  it. 

Strangely  enough,  the  one  person  who  had 
hindered  the  steadiness  of  this  vision  was  the  one 
person  I  might  have  expected  to  keep  it  before  me. 
That  was  my  nurse.  When  I  first  came  to  this 
hospital,  I  had  thought  I  was  healed  of  the  future, 
of  all  little  plans  for  to-morrow.  But  from  the 
moment  her  tears  fell  on  my  face  there  in  her  of- 
fice, I  had  been  unconsciously  counting  on  those 
tears.  Forgetting  that  I  had  learned  to  live  in  to- 
day, I  began  wanting  Eileen  Gale  for  my  to-mor- 
row. I  wanted  her  to  want  me.  I  wanted  her — 
sealed — sure — my  own  forever. 


THE  SWALLOW  227 

Of  course  I  never  put  that  feeling  into  even  my 
mind's  words.  I  think  I  should  have  been  horri- 
fied if  any  one  had  suggested  that  I,  Richard 
Byrd,  a  man  cut  off  from  youth  and  normal  youth- 
ful avenues,  could  be  mean  enough  to  ask  such 
love.  And  it  was  only  that  day  when  I  was  so 
ignobly  stung  by  her  attention  to  the  chasseur  in 
the  bed  next  to  mine,  when  I  saw  how  independent 
was  her  mind  of  any  longing  for  me,  how  cruelly 
wide  was  her  pity — only  that  day  did  I  realise 
what  I  had  been  wanting. 

I  have  told  you  how  that  day  I  felt  a  kind  of 
morose  loneliness.  In  my  sickness,  I  had  even 
shown  her  my  bitterness  that  she  could  think  of 
others  when  I  thought  only  of  her.  For  weeks  I 

forgot  that  freeing  vision  of  my  days  at  V . 

I  was  bound  once  again  by  the  longing  to  make 
sure  of  my  to-morrow. 

It  was,  after  all,  the  first  real  test  of  my  philos- 
ophy. Bodily  adventure,  haphazard  romance  of 
eyes  that  looked  into  mine  with  soft  allure,  danc- 
ing— these  had  all  called  to  me  and  I  had  been 
able  to  silence  their  voices.  Yet  I  was  far  from 
them  when  I  gave  them  up.  Now — Eileen  Gale 
— she  was  not  far.  She  was  near  me  every  day — 
near,  yet  not  close.  I  could  never  make  her  close. 
I  had  not  the  right. 


228  THE  SWALLOW 

For  days,  through  all  my  physical  suffering, 
there  was  this  terrible  protest  of  spirit.  Here  was 
I  twenty-two  and — powerless.  By  every  right  of 
youth  she  should  be  mine.  Yet  here  I  lay — I  and 
my  broken  wing — my  youth  denied,  myself  the 
poor  maimed  thing  which  took  its  place  in  her 
eyes  only  because  it  was  one  of  the  hundreds  of 
others  that  needed  her  care. 

It  must  have  been  weeks  that  I  suffered  this 
torment.  Longing  to  see  her,  miserable  when  she 
was  away  from  me,  I  was  even  more  tortured 
when  she  was  actually  with  me.  Sometimes,  in- 
deed, my  protest  broke  into  desperate  hope.  I 
treasured  every  little  sign.  I  tried  to  read  into 
some  word  or  gesture  a  tenderness  that  was  for 
me,  Richard  Byrd,  and  not  for  the  mere  broken 
wing.  I  even  went  back  to  that  time  when  the 
little  cocotte  brought  me  my  morphine.  Miss 
Gale  had  not  understood.  Plainly  for  one  minute 
she  had  been  hurt.  That  had  been  nothing  to  me 
at  the  moment.  Then  I  had  wanted  only  one 
thing — my  drug.  Now,  however — hurt,  hurt, 
hurt !  I  almost  shouted  the  word  to  myself.  Buf- 
feted by  physical  pain  in  almost  every  part  of  me, 
I  could  yet  cling  to  this  memory.  That  look  was 
not  like  the  tears  with  which  she  had  met  me — 
tears  which  she  might  have  given  to  any  poor  boy 


THE  SWALLOW  229 

she  had  once  known  full  of  health  and  merriment. 
It  was  a  tribute  to  me,  the  man.  It  showed  me 
what  I  might  have  become  to  her  if  Life  had  not 
chosen  to  rob  me. 

Yet,  always  catching  myself  in  time,  I  sternly 
put  away  the  thought  of  Eileen  Gale  in  any  rela- 
tion save  that  of  the  friendly  nurse  who  liked  me 
better  than  her  other  patients  only  because  she 
happened  to  know  me  a  little,  because  she  had 
once  sat  opposite  to  me  at  a  snowy  table  from 
which  Christmas  poinsettias  broke  into  bloom.  So 
the  days  went  by  until  that  one  morning  when 
Eileen  Gale  did  not  come  to  me  at  seven  with  the 
breakfast  which  she  herself  often  prepared. 

"Where's — where's  Miss  Gale4?"  I  stammered 
to  Miss  Sally  May,  the  little  Baltimore  nurse. 

"Grippe,"  answered  Miss  Sally.  "They're 
afraid  she's  getting  pneumonia." 

I  stared  at  her  incredulously.  She — sick?  I 
somehow  could  not  believe  it.  Why — why  she 
was  a  nurse.  It  was  her  business  to  be  well,  to 
be  here  taking  care  of  me.  And  then  after  the 
little  Baltimore  nurse  had  gone  I  realised  as  I 
took  a  mechanical  sip  of  coffee  how  much  I  had 
always  taken  Eileen  Gale  for  granted — taken  her 
for  granted  and — wanted  her. 

There  were  ten  terrible  days  ahead.     During 


230  THE  SWALLOW 

this  time  Dr.  Olson  operated  on  the  first  of  my  ab- 
scesses. This  relieved  the  pressure  on  my  body 
which  had  dragged  me  to  and  fro  as  if  I  were 
bound  to  the  back  of  some  frantic  wild  beast.  The 
comparative  freedom  from  pain  left  me  more  free 
to  miss  Eileen  Gale,  to  ache  for  the  sight  of  her 
coming  through  the  door  of  the  ward,  for  the 
touch  of  her  cool,  firm  fingers,  for  the  merry  laugh 
that  always  seemed  to  be  folding  in  and  out. 

She  had  not  got  pneumonia.  After  one  day  of 
dread  I  found  out  that  I  had  really  nothing  to 
fear  for  her.  All  I  went  through  now  was  the 
aching  emptiness  of  these  hours  away  from  her.  I 
was  homesick  as  I  had  never  been  in  my  life. 

One  morning  I  was  watching  Miss  Sally  May 
looking  at  the  bandages  of  the  wounded  chasseur 
on  my  right.  At  the  first  whiff  of  the  antiseptics, 
it  all  came  back  to  me — just  how  Eileen  had 
looked  that  morning  when  I  had  resented  her  un- 
distracted  care  of  him.  And  like  a  wave  it  broke 
over  me — my  new  seeing. 

"Oh,"  I  found  myself  thinking  passionately,  "if 
I  could  only  see  you — here — at  his  side — right 
now!  Taking  care  of  him,  taking  care  of  me — • 
what  does  it  matter  which — just  so  long  as  I  can 
see  you." 

That  was  the  way  I  learned  my  new  lesson — 


THE  SWALLOW  231 

the  lesson  that  was  really  part  of  my  old  one.  I 
knew  now  that  I  had  been  wanting  Eileen  Gale 
to  give,  not  to  be.  I  saw  that  it  was  just  because 
she  always  would  be  strong  enough  and  separate 
enough  to  follow  her  duty  in  the  face  of  any  op- 
posing personal  inclination,  that  I  loved  her  so 
much.  I  had  wanted  her  for  mine.  Yet  always 
mine  she  would  be.  For  it  is  only  the  soul  which 
really  understands  and  loves  another  soul,  that 
truly  possesses.  I  needed  no  other  seal,  no  sign 
for  the  morrow.  And  to-day  that  gave  me  a  sight 
of  her,  that  gave  me  even  a  thought  of  her — who, 
even  the  meanest,  could  ask  for  more  than  that1? 

So  the  vision  that  had  come  to  me  at  V was 

at  last  made  perfect  by  my  love  for  Eileen  Gale. 
There  were  times  when  I  slipped  again  into  dark- 
ness, when  I  longed  for  death  to  put  an  end  to 
the  mocking  wish  that  she  might  be  mine  in  the 
old  human  way.  But  these  times  were  few  and 
more  and  more  I  was  content  with  the  day's  bless- 
ing of  her  presence. 

*         *         * 

The  long  night  had  trudged  heavily  away. 
The  last  hour,  with  a  furtive  glance  over  its 
shoulder  at  the  coming  dawn,  hurried  its  steps.  In 
that  kind  darkness  before  morning,  my  tightened 
nerves  relaxed.  My  lids,  heavy  with  sleeplessness, 


232  THE  SWALLOW 

dropped,  lifted  again  to  the  cosy  dusk  of  the  ward, 
dropped  once  more  and  shut  me  in  to  bliss.  .  .  . 

I  was  back  in  El  Paso.  I  was  starting  down  to 
the  bakery.  Some  one  followed  me  out  to  the 
front  lawn — was  it  mother,  was  it  a  girl  *?  I  could 
never  tell;  but  always  it  was  a  woman's  presence. 
She  bent  over  the  crocus  bed  under  the  magnolias, 
"They're  pushing  on  their  little  toes,  trying  to 
get  their  heads  up  through  the  ground,"  she  said. 
I  kissed  the  back  of  the  bent  neck  and  swung  off 
down  the  street  in  glorious  strides.  Beside  this 
intoxication  motion,  flying  was  dull.  To  walk,  to 
work — here  was  adventure !  .  .  . 

My  eyes,  opened  slowly  by  the  daylight,  fell 
on  the  tree-tops  outside  my  window.  It  was  the 
same  dream,  the  dream  of  walking,  drunk  with  my 
own  vigour,  that  I  had  had  for  months  every  morn- 
ing at  this  hour.  And  always  my  disillusioned 
eyes  had  opened  not  on  the  magnolias  of  El  Paso 
but  on  the  poplars  outside  the  Appleton  Ambu- 
lance in  Paris. 

When  I  was  first  brought  to  this  bed  the  tree- 
tops  were  flowing  with  summer  green.  I  had 
watched  those  heart-shaped  leaves  fulfil  their  gold- 
en destiny.  I  had  watched  them  shiver  away, 
one  by  one,  until  there  were  only  three  leaves  left. 
Three  leaves,  two  leaves,  and  by  Christmas  one 


THE  SWALLOW  233 

leaf  beat  against  the  bough.  It  made  me  think  of 
a  despairing,  imprisoned  bird.  That  was  a  year 
ago.  In  the  spring  all  the  young  leaves  had  come 
trooping  back  and  burst  into  life.  Once  more  I 
saw  them  flame  and  die  until  there  were  but  four 
leaves  left.  Four  leaves,  three  leaves,  and  now 
on  Christmas  morning  two  leaves  scraped  to- 
gether on  their  lonely  bough.  I  had  counted  time 
not  by  days  but  by  seasons,  and  the  poplars  had 
been  my  dial. 

But  there  were  other  leaves  to  tell  the  time  this 
morning.  All  over  the  ward  twined  glossy  holly. 
Its  red  berries  fairly  tinkled  from  the  door  through 
which  might  come  at  any  moment  she  for  whom 
I  waited. 

A  swish  of  white — but  it  was  only  Miss  Sally 
May,  the  brown-eyed  nurse  from  Baltimore,  with 
a  pitcher  of  water.  Lifting  the  bowl  from  my 
stand  to  a  little  chair  which  she  pushed  beside  the 
bed,  she  filled  it  with  water. 

"Suh  proud  and  hotty  since  he  washes  his  own 
face  that  he  hardly  notices  his  old  friends,"  Miss 
Sally  confided  to  the  pitcher  as  she  handed  me  my 
wash-cloth  and  towel. 

"I  know  a  certain  young  southern  belle  that  had 
better  keep  from  under  the  mistletoe  to-day,"  I  in 


234  THE  SWALLOW 

my  turn  confided  to  the  bowl  while  my  face 
glowed  with  cold  water. 

My  eyes,  answering  the  challenge  in  hers, 
caught  another  gleam  of  white  at  the  door.  It 
was  hard  to  bring  the  proper  earnestness  to  a  flir- 
tation, even  with  a  Baltimore  girl,  when  my  heart 
waited  for  the  opening  of  the  swinging  door.  But 
it  was  only  a  nurse  from  another  ward ;  and  after 
brushing  my  teeth  and  letting  Miss  Sally  May 
take  my  pulse,  I  settled  back  on  the  pillow  that 
she  had  freshened  for  me.  Rene,  the  most  lively 
of  the  convalescents,  pushed  a  basket  of  cigarettes 
under  my  nose.  Lighting  one,  I  lay  back  and 
amused  myself  by  sending  out  smoke-rings  from 
both  corners  of  my  mouth.  And  between  the  two 
curling  streamers  of  smoke  that  floated  away  like 
incense  from  a  Buddha's  lips,  my  half-closed  eyes 
watched  for  a  white  skirt,  whiter  than  any  other 
skirt. 

On  this  Christmas  morning  as  I  waited  for 
her  to  enter  the  swinging-door,  there  was  none 
of  the  old  anguish  in  my  desire.  And  as  she  came 
at  last  down  the  ward,  stopping  here  and  there  on 
the  way  to  me,  only  a  spirit  of  content  was  in  my 
watching.  It  was  too  utterly  sweet  that  she 
should  be  here  in  this  room,  that  I  could  look  at 


THE  SWALLOW  235 

her  as  she  bent  over  that  one  grizzled  French  cap- 
tain, that  I  could  catch  the  eager,  grateful  smile 
with  which  another  officer  looked  up  at  her. 

When  she  did  at  last  reach  my  side,  she  looked 
down  at  me  with  a  swift  little  smile. 

"Good  morning,  Merry  Christmas,  will  you 
dine  with  me  to-night*?" 

My  own  words  to  her  of  that  other  Christmas 
two  years  before!  Two  things  beat  against  my 
heart  at  the  words.  One,  a  wayward  triumph  that 
she  should  have  remembered  so  exactly;  the  other, 
a  pain  that  she  should  thus  remind  me  of  the 
change. 

She  seemed  to  see  only  the  latter  and  a  hot  lit- 
tle flush  mounted  her  cheek  to  the  first  wave  of 
crisp  black  hair  showing  under  the  nurse's  cap. 
"Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  she  whispered,  "how  could  you 
think — that*?  I'm  not  making  fun.  I'm  really 
asking  you.  Listen,  my  dear,  the  doctor  has  said 
so — you  are  to  try  walking  this  day.  That  is  your 
Christmas  present." 

I  stared  at  her  incredulously.  It  had  been  al- 
most sixteen  months  since  the  great  surgeon,  grey 
and  grave  and  steady,  had  promised  to  try  get- 
ting me  out  of  this  bed.  Now  for  the  first  time  I 
had  been  delivered  from  the  long  course  of  scien- 
tific treatments  he  had  prescribed.  Only  yester- 


236  THE  SWALLOW 

day  the  tight  plaster  cast  had  been  removed  and 
I  had  not  yet  dared,  to  hope  for  that  day  when  I 
should  at  last  get  up  from  this  prison  bed.  God, 
could  it  be  true !  I  lay  there  tossed  between  fear 
and  hope.  What  if  I  couldn't — after  all,  what 
if  I  couldn't?  I  began  to  almost  dread  the  test 
ahead  of  me.  During  all  these  months  I  had 
tried  to  school  myself  to  the  worst,  to  a  future 
where  I  should  be  walked  and  never  walk.  Now, 
however — I  felt  that  defeated  hope  would  kill  me. 

"Oh,  yes,  and  here's  another  Christmas  gift,"  I 
heard  my  nurse's  voice  saying  and  she  put  into  my 
hand  a  heavy  square  white  envelope. 

The  moment  I  saw  the  type  of  stationery  and 
the  big  wayward  hand  in  which  my  name  was 
written,  I  knew  what  it  was  and  from  whom  it 
came.  Jasmine!  Her  wedding  announcement! 
And  I  did  not  need  to  open  the  envelope  to  find 
out  that  Lee  Malone's  name  was  inside. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  heard  from  her  since 
that  Christmas  two  years  ago  when  she  had  sent 
me  her  photograph.  I  had  never  acknowledged 
the  gift  simply  because  every  time  I  tried  to  do  so 
Eileen  Gale's  face  came  between  me  and  the  page 
and  made  every  word  sound  as  if  a  stranger  were 
writing  down  words  to  another  stranger.  Nor 
had  my  mother  ever  mentioned  Jasmine.  Per- 


THE  SWALLOW  237 

haps  she  had  fancied  that  the  only  news  she  could 
give  of  her  would  wound  me.  So,  like  a  genii 
from  the  sea,  leaped  out  this  ghost  of  an  old  in- 
tense life. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sefton  Grey  announce  the  mar- 
riage of  their  daughter  Jasmine "  In  a  stupor  I 

read  the  engraved  announcement.  Then  in  one 
gusty  minute  the  stupor  was  pricked.  A  magnolia 
dipping  in  the  breeze  shuttered  her  face  from  the 
moonlight.  In  that  kind  darkness  I  groped  for 
her  soft  lips  with  my  own — groped  and  found 
them.  My  heart  sang  in  triumph  at  that  first  kiss. 
She  was  mire.  The  earth  was  mine.  The  old 
passion  whirled  upon  me — whirled  and  bore  me 
down.  It  came  from  my  memory  of  Jasmine 
Grey,  but  it  took  me  to  Eileen  Gale. 

"Why,  what  is  it4?  What  has  happened?"  I 
heard  her  whisper  in  alarm. 

I  forced  a  smile.  "Oh,"  I  answered  at  last,  "I 
suppose  it's  never  pleasant  to  hear  that  your  old 
love  has  married  the  other  fellow." 

I  saw  something  cross  her  face.  The  something 
went  through  me  fierily.  "Eileen,"  I  whispered 
savagely,  "God,  don't  you  see*?"  And  I  closed 
my  eyes  against  the  racking  vision  of  what  could 
never  be — of  meeting  Eileen  Gale's  lips  with  my 
own.  I  forgot  all  the  contentment  in  her  mere 


238  THE  SWALLOW 

presence  which  I  had  learned.  I  wanted  her, 
wanted  her,  wanted  her.  And  so  long  had  I 
thought  of  myself  as  incurably  helpless  that  it  was 
a  moment  before  her  first  words  came  back  to  me. 
If  I  should  really  be  able  to  walk  again — ah,  then, 
the  vision  might  not  be  so  impossible — I  opened 
upon  her  eyes  haggard  with  hope. 

She  had  made  no  reply  to  my  words.  She  was 
just  standing  there  with  her  hands  folded  and  her 
eyes  fixed  quietly — almost  gravely — on  my  face. 
Had  she  understood  what  I  was  trying  to  tell  her1? 
Before  I  could  decide  she  was  gone. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  was  bringing  Christmas 
to  our  ward.  There  was  a  tree  webbed  in  tinsel, 
glittering  with  American  ornaments,  and  she 
wheeled  it  to  the  bedside  of  each  patient.  It  was 
strange,  but  at  the  sight  of  that  tree  I  forgot  all 
deeper  things.  Christmas  is  always  a  separate 
place.  It  is  the  great  meeting-ground  of  childhood 
and  maturity.  To  the  sick  man  its  magic  is  even 
brighter.  As  the  eye  of  all  of  us  wounded  men 
followed  the  tree  we  left  behind  us  every  other 
thought.  And  afterwards  when  Miss  Gale  took 
from  the  fir-boughs  presents  for  each  patient,  the 
eyes  of  these  soldiers  grew  big  with  suspense  as 
those  of  children. 

"But  how  did  you  know  I  wanted  this1?    And 


THE  SWALLOW  239 

this"?  And  this?"  There  were  excited  cries  all 
over  the  room.  I  myself  could  just  hardly  wait 
until  that  tree  came  up  to  my  bed. 
.  But  when  it  did  come,  she  took  down  for  me 
only  one  small  package.  With  fingers  that  were 
trembling  with  excitement,  I  took  off  the  red  rib- 
bons, I  unwrapped  fold  after  fold  of  white  tissue 
paper.  I  came  at  last  to  my  gift.  It  was  merely 
a  card  on  which  were  written  the  words,  "Please 
call  for  package  at  the  office  of  Miss  Gale." 

I  frowned  a  little.  It  was  so  bright  and  cosy 
here  in  this  house  of  Christmas  that  I  hated  to  be 
reminded  of  graver  issues.  "Do  I  have  to  try  to 
walk — to-day?"  I  pleaded. 

"Hmph!"  she  addressed  the  Christmas  tree, 
"he  doesn't  want  to  walk.  He  wants  his  Christ- 
mas to  walk." 

In  a  few  moments  she  came  back  with  a  pair  of 
crutches.  The  head  surgeon  was  with  her.  So 
were  Miss  Sally  May  and  another  nurse.  I  began 
to  tremble  from  head  to  foot. 

?They  lifted  me  up  in  the  bed.  They  put  my 
feet  on  the  floor.  They  raised  me  up.  The  room 
raced  madly  around  my  head — the  cots  with  their 
outspread  Christmas  treasure  of  books  and  fruit 
and  neckties  were  mere  dizzy  spots.  Then  as  my 
head  began  to  clear  the  furniture  and  the  figures 


240  THE  SWALLOW 

about  me  which  had  loomed  so  large  above  my  bed 
for  many  months  were  all  dwarfed  to  their  actual 
size. 

"Now,  take  a  step,"  urged  the  head  surgeon. 

I  was  terrified.  Sweat  broke  out  on  my  fore- 
head. Even  to  stand  with  the  support  of  four 
people  was  unbelievable  effort. 

"I  can't,"  I  cried. 

Meanwhile  all  my  fellow-patients  had  been 
staring  at  me  with  the  gibing  curiosity  which  we 
all  exercised  upon  convalescents. 

"Sacre!  Bounds  like  an  antelope,"  cried  out  a 
one-armed  young  lieutenant  who  had  bound  his 
new  red  silk  necktie  about  the  bandage  on  his 
forehead. 

"Look  out  there,  he'll  run  away  from  you," 
added  another. 

While  the  rest  of  them  were  contributing  that 
joking  comment  of  which  I  have  already  spoken 
as  being  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  wounded  sol- 
dier, I  tried  to  take  that  step.  I  plunged  for- 
ward. They  all  pulled  me  back.  I  tried  again. 
It  was  no  use.  Muscles  unused  for  eighteen 
months  had  forgotten  how  to  obey  my  will. 

"Give  it  up,"  I  panted.     "  'S  no  use." 

They  lifted  me  into  a  wheel-chair  and  as  Miss 
Gale  pushed  me  out  to  her  office  I  had  to  set  my 


THE  SWALLOW  241 

teeth  to  keep  from  crying.  When  I  finally  ar- 
rived there,  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  and  closed 
my  eyes.  I  had  been  prostrated  by  those  poor 
efforts  at  walking,  I  could  not  speak. 

Through  the  terrible  black  weakness  I  heard  her 
voice  more  tender  than  it  had  ever  been.  "Why, 
they  all  have  to  learn  over  again,"  it  was  saying. 

I  roused  myself.  "Don't,"  I  cried  fiercely,  "I 
can't  stand  your  pity." 

For  a  moment  she  said  nothing.  "Pity!"  she 
repeated  at  last  and  I  heard  her  give  a  soft  little 
laugh.  "Pity,  why,  how — funny!" 

Another  instant  and  the  crisp  little  figure  moved 
across  the  room  with  the  springy  step  that  I  knew 
so  well.  She  pulled  aside  a  screen  and  in  stupe- 
fied silence  I  watched  her  roll  out  a  table  which, 
blazing  with  poinsettias  and  candles,  looked  exact- 
ly the  same  as  that  secluded  corner  table  in  the  un- 
secluded  cafe  where  I  had  taken  her  two  years 
before.  Without  a  word  she  pulled  the  table  in 
front  of  me.  Then,  darkening  the  room  so  that 
the  candles  were  now  our  only  light,  she  sat  down 
opposite  to  me  and  as  we  waited  Antoinette 
brought  in  our  soup. 

Feeling  as  if  I  were  in  a  dream  I  took  a  first 
taste  of  that  soup. 

"Why,  it's  potage  Margerole,"  I  cried,   "the 


242  THE  SWALLOW 

very  same  we  had  that  night!  How  did  you  re- 
member that?" 

Her  face  broke  into  the  familiar  nooks  and 
crannies.  In  each  one  of  them  you  found  some 
different  thing — wistfulness,  gaiety,  a  mocking 
tenderness — in  a  haze  I  saw  them  all.  And  as  I 
did  so  headlong  triumph — a  triumph  I  had 
thought  would  never  be  mine — made  me  forget 
all  that  I  should  have  remembered. 

"Oh,  you  must  have — just  a  little — or  else  you 
wouldn't  have  remembered  everything  just  as  it 
was — the  poinsettias — the  candles — even  the 
soup."  I  heard  the  words  being  said  by  some  one. 

For  reply,  she  put  her  elbows  on  the  snowy 
table-cloth  and  leaned  across  to  me.  "Dear,  fool- 
ish Swallow,"  she  whispered. 

"Honestly*?"  I  said  breathlessly. 

"Honestly,"  said  she,  "from  the  very  first  mo- 
ment I  saw  you." 

I  looked  into  the  bending  Heaven  of  her  face. 
"But  why?"  I  asked.  "Oh,  it  can't  be  true.  .Your 
swallow  can't  fly  any  more,  you  know." 

"Ah,  but  that  is  what  you  can — always,"  said 
she,  her  face  alight  with  something  I  had  never 
seen.  "There's  something  in  you  that  will  keep 
going  on.  First  you  took  to  wings  of  steel.  That 
was  a  boy's  adventure — the  adventure  of  the 


THE  SWALLOW  243 

body.  Then  began  the  real  adventure — of  the 
spirit.  Oh,  Swallow,  don't  you  think  I  haven't 
seen — all  your  flying — all  these  months  in  bed." 

Her  words  exalted  me.  Then  came  the  old 
weighting  sense  of  what  I  really  was,  of  the  mean- 
ness of  accepting  such  happiness. 

"Eileen,  Eileen,"  I  groaned,  "I  can't  take  it — 
not  when  I'm  like  this — just  something  to  be  sorry 
for." 

"Sorry!"  she  flung  back  my  word  stormily.  "Of 
course  I'm  sorry  for  all  you've  suffered.  But  do 
you  think  I  could  pity  you  for  the  way  you've 
suffered?  Why,  do  you  imagine  I  would  have  let 
you  have  that  morphine  if  I  had  thought  you  were 
weak?' 

I  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  "What  do  you 
mean?"  I  groped. 

"I  mean  that  I  did  not  tell  Dr.  Olson  that  time 
when  I  found  you  had  had  it  smuggled  to  you  just 
because  I  trusted  you  to  break  off.  You  did  break 
it  off,  too.  I  saw  you  struggling — it  just  broke  my 
heart. — Pity?  Could  any  one  pity  a  man  like 
you?" 

I  had  thought  that  I  had  learned  to  understand 
her.  Now  I  saw  that  all  my  life  I  was  going  to 
be  following  her,  humbly,  along  new,  hidden 
paths. 


244  THE  SWALLOW 

"Oh,  Stormy  Petrel,"  I  cried,  and  in  the  cry 
was  gathered  up  all  the  reverence  I  had  ever  felt, 
"I  can't  be  sorry  for  myself  when  being  sick  has 
shown  me  you.  Two  years  ago  to-day  I  fell  in 
love  with  you.  In  a  queer  callow  way  I  sort  of 
divined  everything  that  made  you  different.  Of 
course,  you  were  pretty  and  charming,  but  that 
wasn't  it.  There  were  things  you  stood  for — just 
the  way  you  always  understood — somehow  you 
were  never  forcing  your  charm  and  good  looks- 
like — like "  I  stopped  myself  just  in  time  to 

avoid  Jasmine's  name.  Then  reaching  for  her 
hand  under  the  fire  of  poinsettias,  I  finished  sol- 
emnly. "I  guess  maybe  that's  what  the  war  has 
done  for  a  lot  of  us.  It's  made  us  care  for  a  dif- 
ferent thing  in  women." 

She  gave  my  fingers  a  little  tender  pressure,  but 
to  her  eyes  came  back  the  old  mocking  laugh. 
"Dear,  dear,"  said  she,  "and  to  think  that  I  first 
liked  him  because  he  didn't  know  anything  about 
women." 

It  was  after  I  had  been  taken  back  into  the 
ward  that  the  head  surgeon  gave  me  my  great 
Christmas  present.  This  was  the  assurance  that, 
in  spite  of  my  dismal  failure  that  morning,  I 
would  walk  again,  with  only  a  heavy  limp  and  a 
cane  between  me  and  normal  activity. 


THE  SWALLOW  245 

As  if  this  was  not  enough,  this  tremulous, 
blinding  hope  of  a  happiness  I  had  forsworn, 
Eileen  came  to  take  me  for  an  outing.  Bundling 
me  up  in  my  old  military  coat  from  which  the 
blood  had  been  cleaned,  she  pinned  my  medals 
on  my  breast,  stuck  my  "berry"  on  my  head,  rolled 
me  out  of  the  ward  with  its  festive  burden  of 
holly  and  mistletoe,  rolled  me  down  into  the  court. 
For  the  first  time  in  eighteen  months  I  was  in  the 
open  air !  My  excitement  was  so  painful  that  to 
calm  me  she  let  the  hospital  boy  wheel  me  while 
she  walked  by  my  side. 

"Look!  Look!"  I  cried,  as  we  made  our  way 
to  the  street.  "A  dog!" 

She  laughed.  I  had  forgotten  there  were  dogs. 
I  had  forgotten  there  were  children  or  street-cars 
or  automobiles  or  anything  but  beds  and,  operat- 
ing-tables, doctors  and  dressings.  How  wonder- 
ful to  begin  life  again  in  the  winy  December 
sunshine!  Not  the  storm-spent  joy  of  a  sail  in 
wind  and  rain,  not  a  billowy  gallop  across  the 
prairies,  not  even  that  first  triumphant  flight  above 
the  clouds — nothing  had  ever  been  so  intoxicating 
as  this  ride  through  the  Bois  in  an  old  wheel-chair. 

Evening  mist  began  to  rise.  The  sun  was  set- 
ting red  and  moist  through  the  fog  like  a  large, 
ripe  fruit.  Velvet  evergreens  dripped  with  moss. 


246  THE  SWALLOW 

Oaks  spread  out  their  bare,  dark  boughs.  They 
looked  as  if  their  roots  were  in  the  air. 

"I  wonder  if  they're  standing  on  their  heads, 
those  oaks,"  I  mused. 

She  laughed  again.  I  looked  up  at  her  as  she 
stepped  along  beside  me,  at  her  cheeks  as  red  as 
the  sun  going  down  through  the  mist,  at  eyes  al- 
ways laughing  away  something  deeper  than  laugh- 
ter, at  the  dancing  waves  of  hair,  young  despite 
those  little  spots  of  grey  that  had  come  with  her 
decoration  for  brave  service. 

I  knew  that  I  should  sleep  that  night  deliciously. 
I  knew  that  I  should  be  walking  soon.  I  hoped — 
and  it  has  happened  since — that  my  mother  would 
see  me  not  creeping  on  crutches  but  in  the  service 
of  my  country.  Youth  and  strength  came  sing- 
ing back  to  me.  "Home,  now,  Pierre,"  she  said. 

"Home,  now,  Pierre,"  I  repeated,  still  looking 
at  her. 


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